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THE 

COMPLETE WORKS OF NATHANIEL 
HAWTHORNE, WITH INTRODUCTORY 
NOTES BY GEORGE PARSONS 
LATHROP 

AND ILLUSTRATED WITH 

Etchings by Blum , Church , Dielman, Gifford\ Shirlaw , 

and Turner 


IN THIRTEEN VOLUMES 
VOLUME I. 












Larfy Ekccao^MtmfU. 






















































TWICE-TOLD TALES 


BY 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

n 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
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Copyright, 1861, 

By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

Copyright, 1879, 

By ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROF. 
Copyright, 1882, 

By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 


All rights reserved. 

s-2-7^' 

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The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company- 


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CONTENTS. 


Introductory Note . . 

• 


• 


• 

• 


• 


7 

Preface . . 










13 

The Gray Champion . 

• 




• 

• 




21 

Sunday at Home .... 


• 


• 

• 


• 



32 

The Wedding Knell . 

• 




• 

• 




41 

The Minister’s Black Veil 


• 


• 

• 


• 



52 

The May-Pole of Merry Mount 

• 




• 

• 




70 

The Gentle Boy .... 










85 

Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe 

• 




• 

• 




127 

Little Annie’s Ramble 


• 


• 

• 


• 



143 

Wakefield. 










153 

A Rill from the Town Pump 


• 


• 

• 


• 



165 

The Great Carbuncle 

• 




• 





173 

The Prophetic Pictures 


• 


• 

• 


• 



192 

David Swan. 

• 





• 




211 

Sights from a Steeple . 










219 

The Hollow of the Three Hills 

• 




• 

• 




228 

The Toll-Gatherer’s Day . 


• 


• 

• 


• 



234 

The Vision of the Fountain . 

• 




• 

• 




242 

Fancy’s Show Box .... 


• 


• 



• 



250 

Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment . 





• 

■ 




258 

Legends of the Province House. 











I. Howe’s Masquerade 


• 


• 

• 


• 


• 

272 

II. Edward Randolph’s Portrait 

• 


• 



0 


• 


291 

III. Lady Eleanore’s Mantle . 


• 


• 

• 


• 


• 

307 

IV. Old Esther Dudley 

• 


ft 


/ 

* 


r 


328 















6 


CONTENTS. 


PAM 

The Haunted Mind.343 

The Village Uncle.349 

The Ambitious Guest.364 

The Sister Years. 375 

Snowflakes. 385 

The Seven Vagabonds.392 

The White Old Maid.414 

Peter Goldthwaite’s Treasure.428 

Chippings with a Chisel.455 

The Shaker Bridal.469 

Night Sketches.477 

Endicott and the Red Cross.485 

The Lily’s Quest.495 

Footprints on the Sea-Shore.504 

Edward Fane’s Rosebud.517 

The Threefold Destiny . . * 527 




INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


■ ♦ 

THE TWICE-TOLD TALES. 

On his return to his native town, Salem, after grad¬ 
uating at Bowdoin College in 1825, Hawthorne de¬ 
voted himself to writing fiction. His first hook was 
the romance of “ Fanshawe,” 1 which, however, made 
no impression on the public. He next produced a 
volume of stories to which he gave the title “ Seven 
Tales of my Native Land ”; hut, after discouraging 
search for a publisher, he destroyed the manuscript. 
Whether any of the material composing that work was 
embodied in his later short stories it is impossible to 
determine, on the evidence now remaining. Still, it 
is not unlikely that he drew upon it, from memory, 
for the foundation of some among the “Twice-Told 
Tales.” The sketches and stories now known collec¬ 
tively under this title were written mainly in a little 
room in the second story of a house on Herbert Street, 
Salem, from the windows of which Hawthorne’s birth¬ 
place on the adjoining street (Union) is visible. “ In 
this dismal chamber fame was won : ” so runs a pas¬ 
sage in the “American Note-Books.” Under another 
date he says of it: “ And here I sat a long, long time, 
waiting patiently for the world to know me, and some¬ 
times wondering why it did not know me sooner, or 
whether it would ever know me at all.” 


1 See vol. 11 of this edition. 



8 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


The Herbert Street house was habitually referred 
to by the members of the Hawthorne family as being 
on Union Street, since the family residence and the 
birthplace were connected by the lots of land attached 
respectively to each. The mansion on Union Street 
has since undergone considerable alteration, a large 
part of it having been taken down some years ago, 
owing to its dilapidated condition. On Dearborn 
Street there was another house, built for the mother 
of Hawthorne by her brother, Robert Manning, in 
which Hawthorne lived for about four years, though 
at what time precisely it is impossible to state. In 
the Dearborn Street house, also, he had a study; but 
the edifice has been removed to another site and al¬ 
tered. The Herbert Street (or, as in the Note-Books, 
Union Street) house was evidently the one which 
Hawthorne most closely associated with the production 
of his short stories. 

The earlier pieces appeared in the “ Salem Gazette ” 
newspaper, and in the u New England Magazine” 
(published in Boston from 1831 to 1834). Some¬ 
times they bore the author’s real name, and sometimes 
a pseudonym was attached. Several among them pur¬ 
ported to have been written by “ Ashley Allen Boyce,” 
or the “ Rev. A. A. Royce.” Another pen-name used 
by the young romancer was “ Oberon ” ; the choice of 
which may be explained by the fact that, as the late 
Henry W. Longfellow recalled, some of the college 
friends of Hawthorne had nicknamed him Oberon, in 
allusion to his personal beauty and the imaginative 
tone of his conversation. But notwithstanding the va¬ 
riety of names under which he thus disguised himself, 
his writings revealed so clear an individuality that 
many persons recognized them as being the work of 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE . 


9 


one mind. In 1886, he went to Boston to edit a mag¬ 
azine for S. G. Goodrich, then known as a popular 
compiler and publisher; and while thus engaged he 
wrote a large part of “ Peter Parley’s Universal His¬ 
tory,” which passed for Goodrich’s composition and 
attained a wide popularity. At the same time he con¬ 
tributed to the Boston “ Token ” several of the best of 
his short stories, which received high praise in Lon¬ 
don. It was not until their issue in book form that 
they attracted similar encomiums in this country. 

Hawthorne’s original plan was to collect them in a 
series joined by an introduction and chapters of con¬ 
nected narrative; the whole to be called “ The Story- 
Teller.” A part of this projected framework has been 
preserved in the “ Mosses from an Old Manse; ” 1 and 
the Author there says : — 

With each specimen will be given a sketch of the cir¬ 
cumstances in which the story was told. Thus my air-drawn 
pictures will be set in a framework perhaps more valuable 
than the pictures themselves, since they will be embossed 
with groups of characteristic figures, amid the lake and 
mountain scenery, the villages and fertile fields, of our na¬ 
tive land. 

The plan of “ The Story-Teller ” was, to represent a 
young man of apostolical bent who set out to go from 
town to town, giving a sermon every morning, while 
a friend who accompanied him was to relate in pub¬ 
lic, every afternoon, a story illustrating the text pre¬ 
viously discoursed upon by the preacher; the whole 
affair being announced in each place by posters, much 
in the manner of a travelling show. It might be sup- 

1 See “ Passages from a Relinquished Work,” in the second vol¬ 
ume of the Mosses. It was intended to preface Mr. Higginbotham'* 
Catastrophe.” 


10 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


posed that the introduction of sermons in a book of 
fiction would offer a stumbling-block to success; but 
Hawthorne evaded this obvious difficulty by merely 
mentioning the sermons and then giving the stories in 
full. Mr. Goodrich gave the scheme no encourage 
ment, but took the introductory portion describing the 
preacher and the raconteur to a magazine. It is worth 
recording as a curious fact in literary history that for 
the accompanying stories which Goodrich used in his 
annual he gave Hawthorne about three dollars apiece. 

Finally, through the intervention of Mr. Horatio 
Bridge, who privately became responsible to this more 
than prudent publisher for the attendant expense, the 
first series of stories was given to the world in per¬ 
manent form, as a handful of disconnected composi¬ 
tions, under the general heading of “ Twice-Told 
Tales.” Possibly the title was suggested by that line, 
given to Lewis, the Dauphin, in “ King John ” : — 

“ Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale.” 

About eight years after the first volume, a second 
one was issued; but even this did not include all the 
productions of the early period, some of which have 
since been brought to light. A few have perhaps es¬ 
caped notice. The present writer discovered in a mu¬ 
tilated copy of the “ Token,” for 1835, this entry 
among the contents: “ Alice Doane’s Appeal. By 
the Author of ‘ The Gentle Boy.’ ” Only two pages 
of the story itself remained; but they sufficed to show 
that the contribution was one which has hitherto 
found no place in the collected works. A complete 
copy having with some difficulty been obtained, the 
sketch in question will be included in the 12th volume 
of the present edition. 

“ The Gentle Boy ” probably did more for the 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 


11 


author’s reputation than any other of the 44 Twice- 
Told Tales.” Furthermore, as the volume containing 
it formed a link in his acquaintance with Miss Sophia 
A. Peabody, the lady whom he afterwards married, so 
that particular story itself was by her made the sub¬ 
ject of a drawing, which now becomes a matter of lit¬ 
erary interest. A special edition of 44 The Gentle 
Boy ” was published in 1839 : it was a thin, oblong 
quarto in paper covers, accompanied by an illustration 
engraved from Miss Peabody’s outline drawing. This 
edition, now so rare as almost to have passed out of 
existence, contained a brief preface by Hawthorne, 
in which he said : 44 The tale, of which a new edition 
is now offered to the public, was among the earliest 
efforts of its author’s pen; and, little noticed on its 
first appearance in one of the annuals, appears ulti¬ 
mately to have awakened the interest of a larger num¬ 
ber of readers than any of his subsequent produc¬ 
tions ; . . . there are several among the 4 Twice-Told 
Tales ’ which, on reperusal, affect him less painfully 
with a sense of imperfect and ill-wrought conception 
than 4 The Gentle Boy.’ But the opinion of many 
. . . compels him to the conclusion that nature here 
led him deeper into the universal heart than art has 
been able to follow.” A letter from Hawthorne to 
Longfellow, referring to the first volume of the tales, 
contains another remark of general interest: 44 1 have 
another great difficulty in the lack of materials; for I 
have seen so little of the world that I have nothing 
but thin air to concoct my stories of. . . . Sometimes, 
through a peep-hole, I have caught a glimpse of the 
real world, arid the two or three articles in which I 
have portrayed these glimpses please me better than 
the others.” - 


12 


INTRODUCTORY NOTE . 


“ The Toll-Gatherer’s Day,” evidently derived from 
minute observation of the traffic on a bridge near 
Salem ; and “ Little Annie’s Ramble,” which is said 
to have had for its heroine a child from real life, were 
perhaps placed by the Author in this favored category. 

The paper entitled “A Sunday at Home” was 
based on a meeting-house, near the birthplace in 
Union Street, concerning which Hawthorne’s surviving 
sister writes to the editor: “It never had a steeple, 
nor a clock, nor a bell, nor, of course, an organ. . . . 
But Hawthorne bestows all these incitements to devo¬ 
tion to atone for his own personal withdrawal from 
such influences. It was from the bouse on Herbert 
Street that he saw what he describes.” But, like 
“The Seven Vagabonds” (founded on a trip which 
the Author made through part of Connecticut), such 
pieces as are most tinged with actuality have not in¬ 
terested readers so much as the pure invention of 
“ David Swan,” or the weird coloring of those half- 
historic records, the “ Legends of the Province 
House.” 

Nevertheless, looked at closely, and with due knowl¬ 
edge of the accompanying facts of Hawthorne’s life at 
the time, 1 the whole collection affords, besides the dis¬ 
tinct imaginative pleasure to be got from it, valuable 
intimations as to Hawthorne’s development during the 
first decade of his career as an author. 

G. P. L. 

1 See A Study of Hawthorne, Chapter IV. 


PREFACE. 


-♦— 

The Author of 14 Twice-Told Tales ” has a claim to 
one distinction, which, as none of his literary breth¬ 
ren will care about disputing it with him, he need 
not be afraid to mention. He was, for a good many 
years, the obscurest man of letters in America. 

These stories were published in magazines and an¬ 
nuals, extending over a period of ten or twelve years, 
and comprising the whole of the writer’s young man¬ 
hood, without making (so far as he has ever been 
aware) the slightest impression on the public. One 
or two among them, the “ Rill from .the Town 
Pump,” in perhaps a greater degree than any other, 
had a pretty wide newspaper circulation; as for the 
rest, he had no grounds for supposing that, on their 
first appearance, they met with the good or evil for¬ 
tune to be read by anybody. Throughout the time 
above specified, he had no incitement to literary effort 
in a reasonable prospect of reputation or profit, noth¬ 
ing but the pleasure itself of composition — an enjoy¬ 
ment not at all amiss in its way, and perhaps essential 
to the merit of the work in hand, but which, in the 
long run, will hardly keep the chill out of a writer’s 
heart, or the numbness out of his fingers. To this 



14 


PREFACE. 


total lack of sympathy, at the age when his mind 
would naturally have been most effervescent, the 
public owe it (and it is certainly an effect not to be 
regretted on either part) that the Author can show 
nothing for the thought and industry of that portion 
of his life, save the forty sketches, or thereabouts, in¬ 
cluded in these volumes. 

Much more, indeed, he wrote ; and some very small 
part of it might yet be rummaged out (but it would 
not be worth the trouble) among the dingy pages of 
fifteen-or-twenty-year-old periodicals, or within the 
shabby morocco covers of faded souvenirs. The re¬ 
mainder of the works alluded to had a very brief ex¬ 
istence, but, on the score of brilliancy, enjoyed a fate 
vastly superior to that of their brotherhood, which 
succeeded in getting through the press. In a word, 
the Author burned them without mercy or remorse, 
and, moreover, without any subsequent regret, and had 
more than one occasion to marvel that such very dull 
stuff, as he knew his condemned manuscripts to be, 
should yet have possessed inflammability enough to 
set the chimney on fire! 

After a long while the first collected volume of the 
44 Tales ” was published. By this time, if the Author 
had ever been greatly tormented by literary ambition 
(which he does not remember or believe to have been 
the case), it must have perished, beyond resuscitation, 
in the dearth of nutriment. This was fortunate ; for 
the success of the volume was not such as would have 
gratified a craving desire for notoriety. A moderate 


PREFACE. 


15 


edition was “ got rid of ” (to use the publishers very- 
significant phrase) within a reasonable time, but ap¬ 
parently without rendering the writer or his produc¬ 
tions much more generally known than before. The 
great bulk of the reading public probably ignored the 
book altogether. A few persons read it, and liked it 
better than it deserved. At an interval of three or 
four years, the second volume was published, and en¬ 
countered much the same sort of kindly, but calm, 
and very limited reception. The circulation of the 
two volumes was chiefly confined to New England; 
nor was it until long after this period, if it even yet 
be the case, that the Author could regard himself as 
addressing the American public, or, indeed, any pub¬ 
lic at all. He was merely writing to his known or 
unknown friends. 

As he glances over these long-forgotten pages, and 
considers his way of life while composing them, the 
Author can very clearly discern why all this was so. 
After so many sober years, he would have reason to 
be ashamed if he could not criticise his own work as 
fairly as another man’s; and, though it is little his 
business, and perhaps still less his interest, he can 
hardly resist a temptation to achieve something of the 
sort. If writers were allowed to do so, and would 
perform the task with perfect sincerity and unreserve, 
their opinions of their own productions would often 
be more valuable and instructive than the works them¬ 
selves. 

At all events, there can be no harm in the Author’s 


16 


PREFACE. 


remarking that he rather wonders how the “ Twice- 
Told Tales ” should have gained what vogue they did 
than that it was so little and so gradual. They have 
the pale tint of flowers that blossomed in too retired 
a shade, — the coolness of a meditative habit, which 
diffuses itself through the feeling and observation of 
every sketch. Instead of passion there is sentiment; 
and, even in what purport to be pictures of actual 
life, we have allegory, not always so warmly dressed 
in its habiliments of flesh and blood as to be taken 
into the reader’s mind without a shiver. Whether 
from lack of power, or an unconquerable reserve, the 
Author’s touches have often an effect of tameness ; the 
merriest man can hardly contrive to laugh at his 
broadest humor; the tenderest woman, one would 
suppose, will hardly shed warm tears at his deepest 
pathos. The book, if you would see anything in it, 
requires to be read in the clear, brown, twilight at 
mosphere in which it was written ; if opened in the 
sunshine, it is apt to look exceedingly like a volume 
of blank pages. 

With the foregoing characteristics, proper to the 
production of a person in retirement (which hap¬ 
pened to be the Author’s category at the time), the 
book is devoid of others that we should quite as nat¬ 
urally look for. The sketches are not, it is hardly 
necessary to say, profound; but it is rather more re¬ 
markable that they so seldom, if ever, show any design 
on the writer’s part to make them so. They have 
none of the abstruseness of idea, or obscurity of ex 



PREFACE. 


17 

pression, which mark the written communications of a 
solitary mind with itself. They never need translation. 
It is, in fact, the style of a man of society. Every 
sentence, so far as it embodies thought or sensibility, 
may he understood and felt by anybody who will 
give himself the trouble to read it, and will take up 
the hook in a proper mood. 

This statement of apparently opposite peculiarities 
leads us to a perception of what the sketches truly are. 
They are not the talk of a secluded man with his own 
mind and heart (had it been so, they could hardly 
have failed to be more deeply and permanently valua¬ 
ble), but his attempts, and very imperfectly successful 
ones, to open an intercourse with the world. 

The Author would regret to be understood as speak¬ 
ing sourly or querulously of the slight mark made by 
his earlier literary efforts on the Public at large. It 
is so far the contrary, that he has been moved to write 
this Preface chiefly as affording him an opportunity 
to express how much enjoyment he has owed to these 
volumes, both before and since their publication. They 
are the memorials of very tranquil and not unhappy 
years. They failed, it is true, — nor could it have been 
otherwise, — in winning an extensive popularity. Oc¬ 
casionally, however, when he deemed them entirely 
forgotten, a paragraph or an article, from a native or 
foreign critic, would gratify his instincts of authorship 
with unexpected praise, — too generous praise, indeed, 
and too little alloyed with censure, which, therefore, 
he learned the better to inflict upon himself. And, 


18 


PREFACE. 


by the by, it is a very suspicious symptom of a defi¬ 
ciency of the popular element in a book when it calls 
forth no harsh criticism. This has been particularly 
the fortune of the “Twice-Told Tales.” They 
made no enemies, and were so little known and talked 
about that those who read, and chanced to like them, 
were apt to conceive the sort of kindness for the book 
which a person naturally feels for a discovery of his 
own. 

This kindly feeling (in some cases, at least) ex¬ 
tended to the Author, who, on the internal evidence of 
his sketches, came to be regarded as a mild, shy, gen¬ 
tle, melancholic, exceedingly sensitive, and not very 
forcible man, hiding his blushes under an assumed 
name, the quaintness of which was supposed, some¬ 
how or other, to symbolize his personal and literary 
traits. He is by no means certain that some of his 
subsequent productions have not been influenced and 
modified by a natural desire to fill up so amiable an 
outline, and to act in consonance with the character 
assigned to him; nor, even now, could he forfeit it 
without a few tears of tender sensibility. To con¬ 
clude, however: these volumes have opened the way 
to most agreeable associations, and to the formation of 
imperishable friendships; and there are many golden 
threads interwoven with his present happiness, which 
he can follow up more or less directly, until he finds 
their commencement here; so that his pleasant path¬ 
way among realities seems to proceed out of the 
Dreamland of his youth, and to be bordered with just 


I 


PREFACE. 


19 


enough of its shadowy foliage to shelter him from the 
heat of the day. He is therefore satisfied with what 
the “ Twice-Told Tales ” have done fcr him, and 
feels it to be far better than fame. 

Lbkox, January 11, 1851. 


/ 


1 




TWICE-TOLD TALES. 

■ 

THE GRAY CHAMPION. 

There was once a time when New England groaned 
Under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those 
threatened ones which brought on the Revolution. 
James II., the bigoted successor of Charles the Vo¬ 
luptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies, 
and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away 
our liberties and endanger our religion. The admin¬ 
istration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a 
single characteristic of tyranny: a Governor and 
Council, holding office from the King, and wholly in¬ 
dependent of the country; laws made and taxes lev¬ 
ied without concurrence of the people immediate or 
by their representatives ; the rights of private citizens 
violated, and the titles of all landed property declared 
void; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on 
the press; and, finally, disaffection overawed by the 
first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on 
our free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept 
in sullen submission by that filial love which had in¬ 
variably secured their allegiance to the mother coun¬ 
try, whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Pro¬ 
tector, or Popish Monarch. Till these evil times, 
however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, . 
and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying faT 



22 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the 
native subjects of Great Britain. 

At length a rumor reached our shores that the 
Prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise, the 
success of which would be the triumph of civil and 
religious rights and the salvation of New England, 
It was but a doubtful whisper: it might be false, or 
the attempt might fail; and, in either case, the man 
that stirred against King James would lose his head. 
Still the intelligence produced a marked effect. The 
people smiled mysteriously in the streets, and threw 
bold glances at their oppressors; while far and wide 
there was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the 
slightest signal would rouse the whole land from its 
sluggish despondency. Aware of their danger, the 
rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing display of 
strength, and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet 
harsher measures. One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir 
Edmund Andros and his favorite councillors, being 
warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the Gov¬ 
ernor’s Guard, and made their appearance in the 
streets of Boston. The sun was near setting when 
the march commenced. 

The roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed 
to go through the streets, less as the martial music of 
the soldiers, than as a muster-call to the inhabitants 
themselves. A multitude, by various avenues, assem¬ 
bled in King Street, which was destined to be the 
scene, nearly a century afterwards, of another en¬ 
counter between the troops of Britain, and a people 
struggling against her tyranny. Though more than 
sixty years had elapsed since the pilgrims came, this 
crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and 
sombre features of their character perhaps more strik* 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


23 


ingly in such a stern emergency than on happier oc¬ 
casions. There were the sober garb, the general sever¬ 
ity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, 
the scriptural forms of speech, and the confidence in 
Heaven’s blessing on a righteous cause, which would 
have marked a band of the original Puritans, when 
threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, 
it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct; 
since there were men in the street that day who had 
worshipped there beneath the trees, before a house 
was reared to the God for whom they had become 
exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, 
too, smiling grimly at the thought that their aged 
arms might strike another blow against the house of 
Stuart. Here, also, were the veterans of King Phil¬ 
ip’s war, who had burned villages and slaughtered 
young and old, with pious fierceness, while the godly 
souls throughout the land were helping them with 
• prayer. Several ministers were scattered among the 
crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them 
with such reverence, as if there were sanctity in their 
very garments. These holy men exerted their influ¬ 
ence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them. 
Meantime, the purpose of the Governor, in disturbing 
the peace of the town at a period when the slightest 
commotion might throw the country into a ferment, 
was almost the universal subject of inquiry, and vari¬ 
ously explained. 

“ Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,’ 
cried some, “ because he knoweth that his time is 
short. All our godly pastors are to be dragged to 
prison ! We shall see them at a Smithfield fire in 
King Street! ” 

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer 


24 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


round their minister, who looked calmly upwards and 
assmned a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a 
candidate for the highest honor of his profession, the 
crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied, at that 
period, that New England might have a John Rogers 
of her own to take the place of that worthy in the 
Primer. 

“ The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new 
St. Bartholomew!” cried others. “We are to be 
massacred, man and male child ! ” 

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although 
the wiser class believed the Governor’s object some¬ 
what less atrocious. His predecessor under the old 
charter, Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first 
settlers, was known to be in town. There were 
grounds for conjecturing, that Sir Edmund Andros 
intended at once to strike terror by a parade of mili¬ 
tary force, and to confound the opposite faction by 
possessing himself of their chief. 

“ Stand firm for the old charter Governor! ” shouted 
the crowd, seizing upon the idea. “The good old 
Governor Bradstreet! ” 

While this cry was at the loudest, the people were 
surprised by the well-known figure of Governor Brad¬ 
street himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who ap¬ 
peared on the elevated steps of a door, and, with char¬ 
acteristic mildness, besought them to submit to the 
constituted authorities. 

“ My children,” concluded this venerable person, 
“ do nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the 
welfare of New England, and expect patiently what 
the Lord will do in this matter! ” 

The event was soon to be decided. All this time, 
the roll of the drum had been approaching through 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


25 


Cornhill, louder and deeper, till with reverberations 
from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial 
footsteps, it burst into the street. A double rank of 
soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole 
breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks, 
and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires 
in the dusk. Their steady march was like the prog¬ 
ress of a machine, that would roll irresistibly over 
everything in its way. Next, moving slowly, with a 
confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party 
of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir 
Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. 
Those around him were his favorite councillors, and 
the bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand 
rode Edward Randolph, our arch-enemy, that “ blasted 
wretch,” as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved 
the downfall of our ancient government, and was fol¬ 
lowed with a sensible curse, through life and to his 
grave. On the other side was Bullivant, scattering- 
jests and mockery as he rode along. Dudley came 
behind, with a downcast look, dreading, as well he 
might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who 
beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among 
the oppressors of his native land. The captain of a 
frigate in the harbor, and two or three civil officers 
under the Crown, were also there. But the figure 
which most attracted the public eye, and stirred up 
the deepest feeling, was the Episcopal clergyman of 
King’s Chapel, riding haughtily among the magis¬ 
trates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representa¬ 
tive of prelacy and persecution, the union of church 
and state, and all those abominations which had driven 
the Puritans to the wilderness. Another guard of 
soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear. 


26 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


The whole scene was a picture of the condition of 
New England, and its moral, the deformity of any 
government that does not grow out of the nature of 
things and the character of the people. On one side 
the religious multitude, with their sad visages and dark 
attire, and on the other, the group of despotic rulers, 
with the high churchman in the midst, and here and 
there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently clad, 
flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority, and 
scoffing at the universal groan. And the mercenary 
soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge the street with 
blood, showed the only means by which obedience 
could be secured. 

“ O Lord of Hosts,” cried a voice among the crowd, 
“ provide a Champion for thy people ! ” 

This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as 
a herald’s cry, to introduce a remarkable personage. 
The crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled 
together nearly at the extremity of the street, while 
the soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its 
length. The intervening space was empty — a paved 
solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw almost a 
twilight shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen 
the figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have 
emerged from among the people, and was walking by 
himself along the centre of the street, to confront the 
armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark 
cloak and a steeple-crowned hat, in the fashion of at 
least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his 
thigh, but a staff in his hand to assist the tremulous 
gait of age. 

W hen at some distance from the multitude, the old 
man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique 
majesty, rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


27 


that descended on his breast. He made a gesture at 
once of encouragement and warning, then turned 
again, and resumed his way. 

“Who is this gray patriarch?” asked the young 
men of their sires. 

“ Who is this venerable brother?” asked the old 
men among themselves. 

But none could make reply. The fathers of the 
people, those of fourscore years and upwards, were 
disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget 
one of such evident authority, whom they must have 
known in their early days, the associate of Winthrop, 
and all the old councillors, giving laws, and making 
prayers, and leading them against the savage. The 
elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with 
locks as gray in their youth, as their own were now. 
And the young! How could he have passed so ut¬ 
terly from their memories — that hoary sire, the relic 
of long-departed times, whose awful benediction had 
surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads, in 
childhood ? 

“ Whence did he come ? What is his purpose ? 
Who can this old man be ? ” whispered the wondering 
crowd. 

Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, 
was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the 
street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and 
as the roll of their drum came full upon his ear, the 
old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the 
decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, 
leaving him in gray but unbroken dignity. Now, he 
marched onward with a warrior’s step, keeping time 
to the military music. Thus the aged form advanced 
on one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and 


28 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


magistrates on the other, till, when scarcely twenty 
yards remained between, the old man grasped his staff 
by the middle, and held it before him like a leader’s 
truncheon. 

“ Stand! ” cried he. 

The eye, the face, and attitude of command; the 
solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to 
rule a host in the battle-field or be raised to God in 
prayer, were irresistible. At the old man’s word and 
outstretched arm, the roll of the drum was hushed at 
once, and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous 
enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately 
form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so 
dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only be¬ 
long to some old champion of the righteous cause, 
whom the oppressor’s drum had summoned from his 
grave. They raised a shout of awe and exultation, 
and looked for the deliverance of New England. 

The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, per¬ 
ceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, 
rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed 
their snorting and affrighted horses right against the 
hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step, 
but glancing his severe eye round the group, which 
half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir 
Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the 
dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the Gov¬ 
ernor and Council, with soldiers at their back, repre¬ 
senting the whole power and authority of the Crown, 
had no alternative but obedience. 

“ What does this old fellow here ? ” cried Edward 
Randolph, fiercely. “ On, Sir Edmund! Bid the sol¬ 
diers forward, and give the dotard the same choice 
that you give all his countrymen — to stand aside or 
be trampled on ! ” 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


29 


“ Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grand- 
sire,” said Bullivant, laughing. “ See you not, he is 
some old round-headed dignitary, who hath lain asleep 
these thirty years, and knows nothing of the change of 
times ? Doubtless, he thinks to put us down with a 
proclamation in Old Noll’s name! ” 

“ Are you mad, old man? ” demanded Sir Edmund 
Andros, in loud and harsh tones. “ How dare you 
stay the march of King James’s Governor?” 

“ I have stayed the march of a King himself, ere 
now,” replied the gray figure, with stern composure. 
44 1 am here, Sir Governor, because the cry of an op¬ 
pressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place; 
and beseeching this favor earnestly of the Lord, it was 
vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth, in the 
good old cause of his saints. And what speak ye of 
James? There is no longer a Popish tyrant on the 
throne of England, and by to-morrow noon, his name 
shall be a byword in this very street, where ye would 
make it a word of terror. Back, thou that wast a Gov¬ 
ernor, back! With this night thy power is ended — 
to-morrow, the prison! — back, lest I foretell the scaf¬ 
fold ! ” 

The people had been drawing nearer and nearer, 
and drinking in the words of their champion, who 
spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed 
to converse, except with the dead of many years ago. 
But his voice stirred their souls. They confronted the 
soldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to con¬ 
vert the very stones of the street into deadly weapons. 
Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man ; then he 
cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude, and 
beheld them burning with that lurid wrath, so difficult 
to kindle or to quench; and again he fixed his gaze on 


BO 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


the aged form, which stood obscurely in an open space, 
where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. What 
were his thoughts, he uttered no word which might 
discover. But whether the oppressor were overawed 
by the Gray Champion’s look, or perceived his peril 
in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain 
that he gave back, and ordered his soldiers to com¬ 
mence a slow and guarded retreat. Before another 
sunset, the Governor, and all that rode so proudly with 
him, were prisoners, and long ere it was known that 
James had abdicated, King William was proclaimed 
throughout New England. 

But where was the Gray Champion? Some re¬ 
ported that, when the troops had gone from King 
Street, and the people were thronging tumultuously in 
their rear, Bradstreet, the aged Governor, was seen 
to embrace a form more aged than his own. Others 
soberly affirmed, that while they marvelled at the ven¬ 
erable grandeur of his aspect, the old man had faded 
from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twi¬ 
light, till, where he stood, there was an empty space. 
But all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. The 
men of that generation watched for his reappearance, 
in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, 
nor knew when his funeral passed, nor where his 
gravestone was. 

And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his 
name might be found in the records of that stern 
Court of Justice, which passed a sentence, too mighty 
for the age, but glorious in all after-times, for its hum¬ 
bling lesson to the monarch and its high example to 
the subject. I have heard, that whenever the descend’ 
ants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of their 
sires, the old man appears again. When eighty years 


THE GRAY CHAMPION. 


31 


had passed, he walked once more in King Street. Five 
years later, in the twilight of an April morning, he 
stood on the green, beside the meeting-house, at Lex¬ 
ington, where now the obelisk of granite, with a slab 
of slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of the 
Revolution. And when our fathers were toiling at 
the breastwork on Bunker’s Hill, all through that 
night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long 
may it be, ere he comes again! His hour is one of 
darkness, and adversity, and peril. But should do¬ 
mestic tyranny oppress us, or the invader’s step pollute 
our soil, still may the Gray Champion come, for he 
is the type of New England’s hereditary spirit; and 
his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must ever 
be the pledge, that New England’s sons will vindicate 
their ancestry. 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 


Every Sabbath morning in the summer time, I 
thrust back the curtain, to watch the sunrise stealing 
down a steeple which stands opposite my chamber 
window. First, the weather-cock begins to flash; then, 
a fainter lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next, it 
encroaches on the tower, and causes the index of the 
dial to glisten like gold as it points to the gilded figure 
of the hour. Now, the loftiest window gleams, and 
now the lower. The carved frame-work of the portal 
is marked strongly out. At length, the morning glory, 
in its descent from heaven, comes down the stone 
steps, one by one; and there stands the steeple, glow¬ 
ing with fresh radiance, while the shades of twilight 
still hide themselves among the nooks of the adjacent 
buildings. Methinks, though the same sun brightens 
it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar 
robe of brightness for the Sabbath. 

By dwelling near a church, a person soon contracts 
an attachment for the edifice. We naturally personify 
it, and conceive its massy walls, and its dim emptiness, 
to be instinct with a calm, and meditative, and some¬ 
what melancholy spirit. But the steeple stands fore¬ 
most, in our thoughts, as well as locally. It impresses 
us as a giant, with a mind comprehensive and discrimi¬ 
nating enough to care for the great and small concerns 
of all the town. Hourly, while it speaks a moral to 
the few that think, it reminds thousands of busy indi¬ 
viduals of their separate and most secret affairs. It 


SUNDAY AT HOME . 


38 


is the steeple, too, that flings abroad the hurried and 
irregular accents of general alarm ; neither have glad¬ 
ness and festivity found a better utterance than by its 
tongue; and when the dead are slowly passing to their 
home, the steeple has a melancholy voice to bid them 
welcome. Yet, in spite of this connection with human 
interests, what a moral loneliness, on week days, broods 
round about its stately height! It has no kindred with 
the houses above which it towers; it looks down into 
the narrow thoroughfare, the lonelier, because the 
crowd are elbowing their passage at its base. A 
glance at the body of the church deepens this impres¬ 
sion. Within, by the light of distant windows, amid 
refracted shadows, we discern the vacant pews and 
empty galleries, the silent organ, the voiceless pulpit, 
and the clock, which tells to solitude how time is pass¬ 
ing. Time — where man lives not — what is it but 
eternity ? And in the church, we might suppose, are 
garnered up, throughout the week, all thoughts and 
feelings that have reference to eternity, until the holy 
day comes round again, to let them forth. Might not, 
then, its more appropriate site be in the outskirts of 
the town, with space for old trees to wave around it, 
and throw their solemn shadows over a quiet green ? 
We will say more of this, hereafter. 

But, on the Sabbath, I watch the earliest sun¬ 
shine, and fancy that a holier brightness marks the 
day, when there shall be no buzz of voices on the ex¬ 
change, nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd, nor busi¬ 
ness, anywhere but at church. Many have fancied so. 
For my own part, whether I see it scattered down 
among tangled woods, or beaming broad across the 
fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or trac¬ 
ing out the figure of the casement on my chamber 
vol. i. 3 


34 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


floor, still I recognize the Sabbath sunshine. And 
ever let me recognize it! Some illusions, and this 
among them, are the shadows of great truths. Doubts 
may flit around me, or seem to close their evil wings, 
and settle down; but, so long as I imagine that the 
earth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains its 
sanctity, on the Sabbath — while that blessed sunshine 
lives within me — never can my soul have lost the in¬ 
stinct of its faith. If it have gone astray, it will re¬ 
turn again. 

I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths, from morn¬ 
ing till night, behind the curtain of my open window. 
Are they spent amiss ? Every spot, so near the church 
as to be visited by the circling shadow of the steeple, 
should be deemed consecrated ground, to-day. With 
stronger truth be it said, that a devout heart may con¬ 
secrate a den of thieves, as an evil one may convert a 
temple to the same. My heart, perhaps, has not such 
holy, nor, I would fain trust, such impious potency. 
It must suffice, that, though my form be absent, my 
inner man goes constantly to church, while many, 
whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seats, have 
left their souls at home. But I am there, even before 
my friend, the sexton. At length, he comes — a man 
of kindly, but sombre aspect, in dark gray clothes, and 
hair of the same mixture—he comes and applies his 
key to the wide portal. Now, my thoughts may go in 
among the dusty pews, or ascend the pulpit, without 
sacrilege, but soon come forth again to enjoy the music 
of the bell. How glad, yet solemn too ! All the stee¬ 
ples in town are talking together, aloft in the sunny 
air, and rejoicing among themselves, while their spires 
point heavenward. Meantime, here are the children 
assembling to the Sabbatli-school, which is kept some- 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 


85 


where within the church. Often, while looking at the 
arched portal, I have been gladdened by the sight of a 
score of these little girls and boys, in pink, blue, yel¬ 
low, and crimson frocks, bursting suddenly forth into 
the sunshine, like a swarm of gay butterflies that had 
been shut up in the solemn gloom. Or I might com¬ 
pare them to cherubs, haunting that holy place. 

About a quarter of an hour before the second ring¬ 
ing of the bell, individuals of the congregation begin 
to appear. The earliest is invariably an old woman 
in black, whose bent frame and rounded shoulders are 
evidently laden with some heavy affliction, which she is 
eager to rest upon the altar. Would that the Sabbath 
came twice as often, for the sake of that sorrowful old 
soul! There is an elderly man, also, who arrives in 
good season, and leans against the corner of the tower, 
just within the line of its shadow, looking downward 
with a darksome brow. I sometimes fancy that the 
old woman is the happier of the two. After these, 
others drop in singly, and by twos and threes, either 
disappearing through the doorway, or taking their 
stand in its vicinity. At last, and always with an un¬ 
expected sensation, the bell turns in the steeple over¬ 
head, and throws out an irregular clangor, jarring the 
tower to its foundation. As if there were magic in 
the sound, the sidewalks of the street, both up and 
down along, are immediately thronged with two long 
lines of people, all converging hitherward, and stream¬ 
ing into the church. Perhaps the far-off roar of a 
coach draws nearer — a deeper thunder by its contrast 
with the surrounding stillness — until it sets down the 
wealthy worshippers at the portal, among their hum¬ 
blest brethren. Beyond that entrance, in theory at 
least, there are no distinctions of earthly rank; nor, 


36 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


indeed, by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in 
the sun, would there seem to be such, on the hither 
side. Those pretty girls! Why will they disturb my 
pious meditations! Of all days in the week, they 
should strive to look least fascinating on the Sabbath., 
instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to 
rival the blessed angels, and keep our thoughts from 
heaven. Were I the minister himself, I must needs 
look. One girl is white muslin from the waist up¬ 
wards, and black silk downwards to her slippers; a 
second blushes from topknot to shoetie, one universal 
scarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow, as if 
she had made a garment of the sunshine. The greater 
part, however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of 
hue. Their veils, especially when the wind raises them, 
give a lightness to the general effect, and make them 
appear like airy phantoms, as they flit up the steps, 
and vanish into the sombre doorway. Nearly all — 
though it is very strange that I should know it — wear 
white stockings, white as snow, and neat slippers, 
laced crosswise with black ribbon, pretty high above 
the ankles. A white stocking is infinitely more effec¬ 
tive than a black one. 

Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in se¬ 
vere simplicity, needing no black silk gown to denote 
his office. His aspect claims my reverence, but cannot 
win my love. Were I to picture Saint Peter keeping 
fast the gate of heaven, and frowning, more stern than 
pitiful, on the wretched applicants, that face should be 
my study. By middle age, or sooner, the creed has 
generally wrought upon the heart, or been attempered 
by it. As the minister passes into the church the bell 
holds its iron tongue, and all the low murmur of the 
congregation dies away. The gray sexton looks up and 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 


87 


down the street, and then at my window curtain, 
where, through the small peephole, I half fancy that 
he has caught my eye. Now every loiterer has gone 
in, and the street lies asleep in the quiet sun, while a 
feeling of loneliness comes over me, and brings also 
an uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties. 
O, I ought to have gone to church! The bustle of the 
rising congregation reaches my ears. They are stand¬ 
ing up to pray. Could I bring my heart into unison 
with those who are praying in yonder church, and lift 
it heavenward, with a fervor of supplication, but no 
distinct request, would not that be the safest kind of 
prayer ? “ Lord, look down upon me in mercy! ” 

With that sentiment gushing from my soul, might I 
not leave all the rest to Him ? 

Hark! the hymn. This, at least, is a portion of 
the service which I can enjoy better than if I sat 
within the walls, where the full choir and the massive 
melody of the organ would fall with a weight upon 
me. At this distance it thrills through my frame and 
plays upon my heartstrings with a pleasure both of 
the sense and spirit. Heaven be praised, I know 
nothing of music as a science; and the most elaborate 
harmonies, if they please me, please as simply as a 
nurse’s lullaby. The strain has ceased, but prolongs 
itself in my mind with fanciful echoes till I start from 
my reverie, and find that the sermon has commenced. 
It is my misfortune seldom to fructify, in a regular 
way, by any but printed sermons. The first strong 
idea which the preacher utters gives birth to a train 
of thought, and leads me onward, step by step, quite 
out of hearing of the good man’s voice, unless he be 
indeed a son of thunder. At my open window, catch¬ 
ing now and then a sentence of the “ parson’s saw ; ” 


38 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


I am as well situated as at the foot of the pulpit 
stairs. The broken and scattered fragments of this 
one discourse will be the texts of many sermons, 
preached by those colleague pastors — colleagues, 
but often disputants — my Mind and Heart. The 
former pretends to be a scholar, and perplexes me 
with doctrinal points ; the latter takes me on the score 
of feeling; and both, like several other preachers, 
spend their strength to very little purpose. I, their 
sole auditor, cannot always understand them. 

Suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold 
me still behind my curtain, just before the close of 
the afternoon service. The hour hand on the dial has 
passed beyond four o’clock. The declining sun is hid¬ 
den behind the steeple, and throws its shadow straight 
across the street, so that my chamber is darkened as 
with a cloud. Around the church-door all is solitude, 
and an impenetrable obscurity beyond the thresh¬ 
old. A commotion is heard. The seats are slammed 
down, and the pew-doors thrown back — a multitude 
of feet are trampling along the unseen aisles — and 
the congregation bursts suddenly through the portal. 
Foremost, scampers a rabble of boys, behind whom 
moves a dense and dark phalanx of grown men, and 
lastly, a crowd of females, with young children, and a 
few scattered husbands. This instantaneous outbreak 
of life into loneliness is one of the pleasantest scenes 
of the day. Some of the good people are rubbing 
their eyes, thereby intimating that they have been 
wrapped, as it were, in a sort of holy trance by the 
fervor of their devotion. There is a young man, a 
third rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to flour¬ 
ish a white handkerchief, and brush the seat of a tight 
pair of black silk pantaloons, which shine as if var- 


SUNDAY AT HOME. 


39 


nished. They must have been made of the stuff called 
“ everlasting,” or perhaps of the same piece as Chris¬ 
tian’s garments in the “ Pilgrim’s Progress,” for he 
put them on two summers ago, and has not yet worn 
the gloss off. I have taken a great liking to those 
black silk pantaloons. But now, with nods and greet¬ 
ings among friends, each matron takes her husband’s 
arm and paces gravely homeward, while the girls also 
flutter away after arranging sunset walks with their 
favored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the eve of love. 
At length the whole congregation is dispersed. No ; 
here, with faces as glossy as black satin, come two 
sable ladies and a sable gentleman, and close in their 
rear the minister, who softens his severe visage, and 
bestows a kind word on each. Poor souls! To them 
the most captivating picture of bliss in heaven is — 
“ There we shall be white ! ” 

All is solitude again. But, hark! — a broken warb¬ 
ling of voices, and now, attuning its grandeur to their 
sweetness, a stately peal of the organ. Who are the 
choristers ? Let me dream that the angels, who came 
down from heaven, this blessed morn, to blend them¬ 
selves with the worship of the truly good, are playing 
and singing their farewell to the earth. On the wings 
of that rich melody they were borne upward. 

This, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. 
A few of the singing men and singing women had 
lingered behind their fellows, and raised their voices 
fitfully, and blew a careless note upon the organ. 
Yet, it lifted my soul higher than all their former 
strains. They are gone — the sons and daughters of 
music — and the gray sexton is just closing the portal. 
For six days more, there will be no face of man in 
the pews, and aisles, and galleries, nor a voice in the 


40 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


pulpit, nor music in the choir. Was it worth while 
to rear this massive edifice, to he a desert in the heart 
of the town, and populous only for a few hours of 
each seventh day ? O, but the church is a symbol of 
religion. May its site, which was consecrated on the 
day when the first tree was felled, be kept holy for¬ 
ever, a spot of solitude and peace, amid the trouble 
and vanity of our week-day world ! There is a moral, 
and a religion too, even in the silent walls. And may 
the steeple still point heavenward, and be decked with 
the hallowed sunshine of the Sabbath mom ! 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 


There is a certain church in the city of New York 
which I have always regarded with peculiar interest, 
on account of a marriage there solemnized, under very 
singular circumstances, in my grandmother’s girlhood. 
That venerable lady chanced to be a spectator of the 
scene, and ever after made it her favorite narrative. 
Whether the edifice now standing on the same site be 
the identical one to which she referred, I am not anti¬ 
quarian enough to know ; nor would it be worth while 
to correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error, by 
reading the date of its erection on the tablet over the 
door. It is a stately church, surrounded by an in- 
# closure of the loveliest green, within which appear 
urns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental 
marble, the tributes of private affection, or more splen¬ 
did memorials of historic dust. With such a place, 
though the tumult of the city rolls beneath its tower, 
one would be willing to connect some legendary in¬ 
terest. 

The marriage might be considered as the result of 
an early engagement, though there had been two in¬ 
termediate weddings on the lady’s part, and forty 
years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. At sixty- 
five, Mr. Ellenwood was a shy, but not quite a se¬ 
cluded man; selfish, like all men who brood over their 
own hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasions a vein 
of generous sentiment; a scholar throughout life, 
though always an indolent one, because his studies 


42 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


had no definite object, either of public advantage or 
personal ambition ; a gentleman, high bred and fas¬ 
tidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considera¬ 
ble relaxation, in his behalf, of the common rules of 
society. In truth, there were so many anomalies in 
his character, and though shrinking with diseased sen¬ 
sibility from public notice, it had been liis fatality so 
often to become the topic of the day, by some wild ec¬ 
centricity of conduct, that people searched his lineage 
for an hereditary taint of insanity. But there was no 
need of this. His caprices had their origin in a mind 
that lacked the support of an engrossing purpose, and 
in feelings that preyed upon themselves for want of 
other food. If he were mad, it was the consequence, 
and not the cause, of an aimless and abortive life. 

The widow was as complete a contrast to her third 
bridegroom, in everything but age, as can well be con¬ 
ceived. Compelled to relinquish her first engagement, 
she had been united to a man of twice her own years, 
to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose 
death she was left in possession of a splendid fortune. . 
A southern gentleman, considerably younger than her¬ 
self, succeeded to her hand, and carried her to Charles¬ 
ton, where, after many uncomfortable years, she found 
herself again a widow. It would have been singular, 
if any uncommon delicacy of feeling had survived 
through such a life as Mrs. Dabney’s; it could not 
but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, 
the cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of 
the heart’s principles, consequent on a second union, 
and the unkindness of her southern husband, which 
had inevitably driven her to connect the idea of his 
death with that of her comfort. To be brief, she was 
that wisest, but unloveliest, variety of woman, a phi- 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 


43 


losopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity, 
dispensing with all that should have been her happi¬ 
ness, and making the best of what remained. Sage in 
most matters, the widow was perhaps the more amia¬ 
ble for the one frailty that made her ridiculous. Be¬ 
ing childless, she could not remain beautiful by proxy, 
in the person of a daughter ; she therefore refused to 
grow old and ugly, on any consideration; she strug¬ 
gled with Time, and held fast her roses in spite of 
him, till the venerable thief appeared to have relin¬ 
quished the spoil, as not worth the trouble of acquir¬ 
ing it. 

The approaching marriage of this woman of the 
world with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood 
was announced soon after Mrs. Dabney’s return to 
her native city. Superficial observers, and deeper 
ones, seemed to concur in supposing that the lady 
must have borne no inactive part in arranging the 
affair; there were considerations of expediency which 
she would be far more likely to appreciate than Mr. 
Ellenwood; and there was just the specious phantom 
of sentiment and romance in this late union of two 
early lovers which sometimes makes a fool of a woman 
who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of 
life. All the wonder was, how the gentleman, with 
his lack of worldly wisdom and agonizing conscious¬ 
ness of ridicule, could have been induced to take a 
measure at once so prudent and so laughable. But 
while people talked the wedding-day arrived. The 
ceremony was to be solemnized according to the Epis¬ 
copalian forms, and in open church, with a degree of 
publicity that attracted many spectators, who occupied 
the front seats of the galleries, and the pews near the 
altar and along the broad aisle. It had been arranged, 


44 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


or possibly it was the custom of the day, that the par¬ 
ties should proceed separately to church. By some 
accident the bridegroom was a little less punctual than 
the widow and her bridal attendants ; with whose ar¬ 
rival, after this tedious, but necessary preface, the 
action of our tale may be said to commence. 

The clumsy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches 
were heard, and the gentlemen and ladies composing 
the bridal party came through the church door with 
the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. 
The whole group, except the principal figure, was 
made up of youth and gayety. As they streamed up 
the broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to 
brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as 
if they mistook the church for a ball-room, and were 
ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant 
was the spectacle that few took notice of a singular 
phenomenon that had marked its entrance. At the 
moment when the bride’s foot touched the threshold 
the bell swung heavily in the tower above her, and 
sent forth its deepest knell. The vibrations died away 
and returned with prolonged solemnity, as she entered 
the body of the church. 

“Good heavens! what an omen,” whispered a young 
lady to her lover. 

“ On my honor,” replied the gentleman, “ I believe 
the bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord. 
What has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest 
Julia, were approaching the altar the bell would ring 
out its merriest peal. It has only a funeral knell for 
her.” 

The bride and most of her company had been too 
much occupied with the bustle of entrance to hear the 
first boding stroke of the bell, or at least to reflect on 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 


45 


the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. They 
therefore continued to advance with undiminished 
gayety. The gorgeous dresses of the time, the crim¬ 
son velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop petti¬ 
coats, the silk, satin, brocade, and embroidery, the 
buckles, canes, and swords, all displayed to the best 
advantage on persons suited to such finery, made the 
group appear more like a bright-colored picture than 
anything real. But by what perversity of taste had 
the artist represented his principal figure as so win¬ 
kled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in 
the brightest splendor of attire, as if the loveliest 
maiden had suddenly withered into age, and become a 
moral to the beautiful around her! On they went, 
however, and had glittered along about a third of the 
aisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed to fill 
the church with a visible gloom, dimming and obscur¬ 
ing the bright pageant, till it shone forth again as 
from a mist. 

This time the party wavered, stopped, and huddled 
closer together, while a slight scream was heard from 
some of the ladies, and a confused whispering among 
the gentlemen. Thus tossing to and fro, they might 
have been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of 
flowers, suddenly shaken by a puff of wind, which 
threatened to scatter the leaves of an old, brown, with¬ 
ered rose, on the same stalk with two dewy buds, — 
such being the emblem of the widow between her fair 
young bridemaids. But her heroism was admirable. 
She had started with an irrepressible shudder, as if 
the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her heart; 
then, recovering herself, while her attendants were 
yet in dismay, she took the lead, and paced calmly 
up the aisle. The bell continued to swing, strike, and 


46 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


vibrate, with the same doleful regularity as when a 
corpse is on its way to the tomb. 

“ My young friends here have their nerves a little 
shaken,” said the widow, with a smile, to the clergy¬ 
man at the altar. “ But so many weddings have been 
ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet 
turned out unhappily, that I shall hope for better for¬ 
tune imder such different auspices.” 

“ Madam,” answered the rector, in great perplexity, 
“ this strange occurrence brings to my mind a mar¬ 
riage sermon of the famous Bishop Taylor, wherein 
he mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future 
woe, that, to speak somewhat after his own rich style, 
he seems to hang the bridal chamber in black, and 
cut the wedding garment out of a coffin pall. And 
it has been the custom of divers nations to infuse 
something of sadness into their marriage ceremonies, 
so to keep death in mind while contracting that en¬ 
gagement which is life’s chiefest business. Thus we 
may draw a sad but profitable moral from this funeral 
knell.” 

But, though the clergyman might have given his 
moral even a keener point, he did not fail to dispatch 
an attendant to inquire into the mystery, and stop 
those sounds, so dismally appropriate to such a mar¬ 
riage. A brief space elapsed, during which the si¬ 
lence was broken only by whispers, and a few sup¬ 
pressed titterings, among the wedding party and the 
spectators, who, after the first shock, were disposed to 
draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The 
young have less charity for aged follies than the old 
for those of youth. The widow’s glance was observed 
to wander, for an instant, towards a window of the 
church, as if searching for the time-worn marble that 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 


47 


Bhe had dedicated to her first husband ; then her eye¬ 
lids dropped over their faded orbs, and her thoughts 
were drawn irresistibly to another grave. Two buried 
men, with a voice at her ear, and a cry afar off, were 
calling her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with 
momentary truth of feeling, she thought how much 
happier had been her fate, if, after years of bliss, the 
bell were now tolling for her funeral, and she were 
followed to the grave by the old affection of her ear¬ 
liest lover, long her husband. But why had she re¬ 
turned to him, when their cold hearts shrank from 
each other’s embrace? 

Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully, that the 
sunshine seemed to fade in the air. A whisper, com¬ 
municated from those who stood nearest the windows, 
now spread through the church; a hearse, with a train 
of several coaches, was creeping along the street, con¬ 
veying some dead man to the churchyard, while the 
bride awaited a living one at the altar. Immediately 
after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends 
were heard at the door. The widow looked down the 
aisle, and clinched the arm of one of her bridemaids 
in her bony hand with such unconscious violence, that 
the fair girl trembled. 

“ You frighten me, my dear madam! ” cried she. 
“ For Heaven’s sake, what is the matter? ” 

“ Nothing, my dear, nothing,” said the widow; then, 
whispering close to her ear, “ There is a foolish 
fancy that I cannot get rid of. I am expecting my 
bridegroom to come into the church, with my first 
two husbands for groomsmen ! ” 

“ Look, look ! ” screamed the bridemaid. “ What 
is here ? The funeral! ” 

As she spoke, a dark procession paced into the 


48 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


church. First came an old man and woman, like chief 
mourners at a funeral, attired from head to foot in the 
deepest black, all but their pale features and hoary 
hair; he leaning on a staff, and supporting her de¬ 
crepit form with his nerveless arm. Behind appeared 
another, and another pair, as aged, as black, and 
mournful as the first. As they drew near, the widow 
recognized in every face some trait of former friends, 
long forgotten, but now returning, as if from their old 
graves, to warn her to prepare a shroud ; or, with pur¬ 
pose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles 
and infirmity, and claim her as their companion by 
the tokens of her own decay. Many a merry night 
had she danced with them, in youth. And now, in 
joyless age, she felt that some withered partner should 
request her hand, and all unite, in a dance of death, 
to the music of the funeral bell. 

While these aged mourners were passing up the 
aisle, it was observed that, from pew to pew, the spec¬ 
tators shuddered with irrepressible awe, as some ob¬ 
ject, hitherto concealed by the intervening figures, 
came full in sight. Many turned away their faces; 
others kept a fixed and rigid stare ; and a young girl 
giggled hysterically, and fainted with the laughter on 
her lips. When the spectral procession approached 
the altar, each couple separated, and slowly diverged, 
till, in the centre, appeared a form, that had been 
worthily ushered in with all this gloomy pomp, the 
death knell, and the funeral. It was the bridegroom 
in his shroud! 

No garb but that of the grave could have befitted 
such a deathlike aspect; the eyes, indeed, had the 
wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; all else was fixed in 
the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin. 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 


49 


The corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow 
in accents that seemed to melt into the clang of the 
bell, which fell heavily on the air while he spoke. 

“ Come, my bride! ” said those pale lips, “ the 
hearse is ready. The sexton stands waiting for us at 
the door of the tomb. Let us be married; and then 
to our coffins! ” 

How shall the widow’s horror be represented? It 
gave her the ghastliness of a dead man’s bride. Her 
youthful friends stood apart, shuddering at the mourn¬ 
ers, the shrouded bridegroom, and herself; the whole 
scene expressed, by the strongest imagery, the vain 
struggle of the gilded vanities of this world, when op¬ 
posed to age, infirmity, sorrow, and death. The awe¬ 
struck silence was first broken by the clergyman. 

“Mr. Ellenwood,” said he, soothingly, yet with 
somewhat of authority, “you are not well. Your 
mind has been agitated by the unusual circumstances 
in which you are placed. The ceremony must be de¬ 
ferred. As an old friend, let me entreat you to re¬ 
turn home.” 

“ Home ! yes, but not without my bride,” answered 
he, in the same hollow accents. “You deem this 
mockery ; perhaps madness. Had I bedizened my 
aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery 
— had I forced my withered lips to smile at my dead 
} iear t — that might have been mockery, or madness. 
But now, let young and old declare, which of us has 
come hither without a wedding garment, the bride¬ 
groom or the bride! ” 

He stepped forward at a ghostly pace, and stood be¬ 
side the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of 
his shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had 
arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. None, that 

VOL. I. 4 


50 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


beheld them, could deny the terrible strength of the 
moral which his disordered intellect had contrived to 
draw. 

“ Cruel! cruel! ” groaned the heart-stricken bride. 

“ Cruel! ” repeated he ; then, losing his deathlike 
composure in a wild bitterness: “ Heaven judge 
which of us has been cruel to the other! In youth 
you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; 
you took away all the substance of my life, and made 
it a dream without reality enough even to grieve at — 
with only a pervading gloom, through which I walked 
wearily, and cared not whither. But after forty years, 
when I have built my tomb, and would not give up 
the thought of resting there — no, not for such a life 
as we once pictured — you call me to the altar. At 
your summons I am here. But other husbands have 
enjoyed your youth, your beauty, your warmth of 
heart, and all that could be termed your life. What 
is there for me but your decay and death? And 
therefore I have bidden these funeral friends, and be¬ 
spoken the sexton’s deepest knell, and am come, in my 
shroud, to wed you, as with a burial service, that we 
may join our hands at the door of the sepulchre, and 
enter it together.” 

It was not frenzy; it was not merely the drunken¬ 
ness of strong emotion, in a heart unused to it, that 
now wrought upon the bride. The stern lesson of the 
day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. 
She seized the bridegroom’s hand. 

“ Yes! ” cried she. “ Let us wed, even at the door 
of the sepulchre! My life is gone in vanity and 
emptiness. But at its close there is one true feeling. 
It has made me what I was in youth ; it makes me 
worthy of you. Time is no more for both of us. Let 
us wed for Eternity! ” 


THE WEDDING KNELL. 


51 


With a long and deep regard, the bridegroom 
looked into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in 
his own. How strange that gush of human feeling 
from the frozen bosom of a corpse! He wiped away 
the tears even with his shroud. 

“Beloved of my youth,” said he, “I have been 
wild. The despair of my whole lifetime had returned 
at once, and maddened me. Forgive; and be for¬ 
given. Yes ; it is evening with us now; and we have 
realized none of our morning dreams of happiness. 
But let us join our hands before the altar, as lovers 
whom adverse circumstances have separated through 
life, yet who meet again as they are leaving it, and 
find their earthly affection changed into something 
holy as religion. And what is Time, to the married 
of Eternity?” 

Amid the tears of many, and a swell of exalted 
sentiment, in those who felt aright, was solemnized 
the union of two immortal souls. The train of with¬ 
ered mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, 
the pale features of the aged bride, and the death- 
bell tolling through the whole, till its deep voice over¬ 
powered the marriage words, all marked the funeral 
of earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, 
the organ, as if stirred by the sympathies of this im¬ 
pressive scene, poured forth an anthem, first mingling 
with the dismal knell, then rising to a loftier strain, 
till the soul looked down upon its woe. And when 
the awful rite was finished, and with cold hand in cold 
hand, the Married of Eternity withdrew, the organ’s 
peal of solemn triumph drowned the Wedding KnelL 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


A PARABLE . 1 

The sexton stood in the porch of Milford meeting* 
house, pulling busily at the hell-rope. The old peo¬ 
ple of the village came stooping along the street. 
Children, with bright faces, tripped merrily beside 
their parents, or mimickect a graver gait, in the con¬ 
scious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bach¬ 
elors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fan¬ 
cied that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier 
than on week days. When the throng had mostly 
streamed into the porch, the sexton began to toll the 
bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend Mr. Hooper’s 
door. The first glimpse of the clergyman’s figure was 
the signal for the bell to cease its summons. 

“ But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his 
face ? ” cried the sexton in astonishment. 

All within hearing immediately turned about, and 
beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly 
his meditative way towards the meeting-house. With 
one accord they started, expressing more wonder than 
if some strange minister were coming to dust the 
cushions of Mr. Hooper’s pulpit. 

1 Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York, 
Maine, who died about eighty years since, made himself remarkable 
by the same eccentricity that is here related of the Reverend Mr. 
Hooper. In his case, however, the symbol had a different import. 
In early life he had accidentally killed a beloved friend ; and from 
that day till the hour of his own death, he hid his face from men. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 53 

“ Are you sure it is our ^parson ? ” inquired Good¬ 
man Gray of the sexton. 

“ Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper,” replied the 
sexton. “ He was to have exchanged pulpits with 
Parson Shute, of Westbury; but Parson Shute sent 
to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral 
sermon.” 

The cause of so much amazement may appear suffi¬ 
ciently slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly person, of 
about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with 
due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched 
his band, and brushed the weekly dust from his Sun¬ 
day’s garb. There was but one thing remarkable in 
his appearance. Swathed about his forehead, and 
hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken 
by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On 
a nearer view it seemed to consist of two folds of 
crape, which entirely concealed his features, except 
the mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept 
his sight, further than to give a darkened aspect to 
all living and inanimate things. With this gloomy 
shade before him, good Mr. Hooper walked onward, 
at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat, and look¬ 
ing on the ground, as is customary with abstracted 
men, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners 
who still waited on the meeting-house steps. But so 
wonder-struck were they that his greeting hardly met 
with a return. 

“ I can’t really feel as if good Mr. Hooper’s face 
was behind that piece of crape,” said the sexton. 

“ I don’t like it,” muttered an old woman, as she 
hobbled into the meeting-house. “ He has changed 
himself into something awful, only by hiding his face.” 

“ Our parson has gone mad ! ” cried Goodman Gray, 
following him across the threshold. 


54 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had 
preceded Mr. Hooper into the meeting-house, and set 
all the congregation astir. Few could refrain from 
twisting their heads towards the door ; many stood 
upright, and turned directly about; while several lit¬ 
tle boys clambered upon the seats, and came down 
again with a terrible racket. There was a general 
bustle, a rustling of the women’s gowns and shuffling 
of the men’s feet, greatly at variance with that hushed 
repose which should attend the entrance of the minis¬ 
ter. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the per¬ 
turbation of his people. He entered with an almost 
noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on 
each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest parish¬ 
ioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, who occupied an 
arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. It was strange 
to observe how slowly this venerable man became 
conscious of something singular in the appearance of 
his pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the 
prevailing wonder, till Mr. Hooper had ascended the 
stairs, and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face 
with his congregation, except for the black veil. That 
mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. It 
shook with his measured breath, as he gave out the 
psalm; it threw its obscurity between him and the 
holy page, as he read the Scriptures ; and while he 
prayed, the veil lay heavily on his uplifted counte¬ 
nance. Did he seek to hide it from the dread Being 
whom he was addressing? 

Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape, 
that more than one woman of delicate nerves was 
forced to leave the meeting-house. Yet perhaps the 
pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight 
to the minister, as his black veil to them. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


55 


Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, 
but not an energetic one: he strove to win his people 
heavenward by mild, persuasive influences, rather than 
to drive them thither by the thunders of the Word. 
The sermon which he now delivered was marked by 
the same characteristics of style and manner as the 
general series of his pulpit oratory. But there was 
something, either in the sentiment of the discourse it¬ 
self, or in the imagination of the auditors, which made 
it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever 
heard from their pastor’s lips. It was tinged, rather 
more darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom of Mr. 
Hooper’s temperament. The subject had reference to 
secret sin, and those sad mysteries which we hide from 
our nearest and dearest, and would fain conceal from 
our own consciousness, even forgetting that the Omnis¬ 
cient can detect them. A subtle power was breathed 
into his words. Each member of the congregation, 
the most innocent girl, and the man of hardened 
breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them, 
behind his awful veil, and discovered their hoarded in¬ 
iquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped 
hands on their bosoms. There was nothing terrible 
in what Mr. Hooper said, at least, no violence; and 
yet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice, the 
hearers quaked. An imsought pathos came hand in 
hand with awe. So sensible were the audience of 
some unwonted attribute in their minister, that they 
longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, al¬ 
most believing that a stranger’s visage would be dis¬ 
covered, though the form, gesture, and voice were those 
of Mr. Hooper. 

At the close of the services, the people hurried out 
with indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their 


56 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits 
the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some 
gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with 
their mouths all whispering in the centre ; some went 
homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation; some 
talked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath day with os¬ 
tentatious laughter. A few shook their sagacious 
heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mys¬ 
tery ; while one or two affirmed that there was no 
mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper’s eyes were 
so weakened by the midnight lamp, as to require a 
shade. After a brief interval, forth came good Mr. 
Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. Turning his 
veiled face from one group to another, he paid due 
reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle aged 
with kind dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, 
greeted the young with mingled authority and love, 
and laid his hands on the little children’s heads to 
bless them. Such was always his custom on the Sab¬ 
bath day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him 
for his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, as¬ 
pired to the honor of walking by their pastor’s side. 
Old Squire Saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse 
of memory, neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his ta¬ 
ble, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless 
the food, almost every Sunday since his settlement. 
He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and, at the 
moment of closing the door, was observed to look back 
upon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon 
the minister. A sad smile gleamed faintly from be¬ 
neath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth, 
glimmering as he disappeared. 

“ How strange,” said a lady, “ that a simple black 
veil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet, 


THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 57 

should become such a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper’s 
face! ” 

“ Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hoop¬ 
er’s intellects,” observed her husband, the physician 
of the village. “ But the strangest part of the affair 
is the effect of this vagary, even on a sober-minded 
man like myself. The black veil, though it covers 
only our pastor’s face, throws its influence over his 
whole person, and makes him ghostlike from head to 
foot. Do you not feel it so ? ” 

“ Truly do I,” replied the lady ; “ and I would not 
be alone with him for the world. I wonder he is not 
afraid to be alone with himself ! ” 

“ Men sometimes are so,” said her husband. 

The afternoon service was attended with similar cir¬ 
cumstances. At its conclusion, the bell tolled for the 
funeral of a young lady. The relatives and friends 
were assembled in the house, and the more distant ac¬ 
quaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good 
qualities of the deceased, when their talk was inter¬ 
rupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered 
with his black veil. It was now an appropriate em¬ 
blem. The clergyman stepped into the room where 
the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin, to take 
a last farewell of his deceased parishioner. As he 
stooped, the veil hung straight down from his fore¬ 
head, so that, if her eyelids had not been closed for¬ 
ever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. Could 
Mr. Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so hastily 
caught back the black veil ? A person who watched 
the interview between the dead and living, scrupled 
not to affirm, that, at the instant when the clergy¬ 
man’s features were disclosed, the corpse had slightly 
shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though 


58 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


the countenance retained the composure of death. A 
superstitious old woman was the only witness of this 
prodigy. From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the 
chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of 
the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a 
tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet 
so imbued with celestial hopes, that the music of a 
heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, seemed 
faintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the 
minister. The people trembled, though they but 
darkly understood him when he prayed that they, and 
himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as he 
trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful 
hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. The 
bearers went heavily forth, and the mourners followed, 
saddening all the street, with the dead before them, 
and Mr. Hooper in his black veil behind. 

“ Why do you look back? ” said one in the proces¬ 
sion to his partner. 

“ I had a fancy,” replied she, “ that the minister 
and the maiden’s spirit were walking hand in hand.” 

“And so had I, at the same moment,” said the 
other. 

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford vil¬ 
lage were to be joined in wedlock. Though reckoned 
a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerful¬ 
ness for such occasions, which often excited a sympa¬ 
thetic smile where livelier merriment would have been 
thrown away. There was no quality of his disposition 
which made him more beloved than this. The company 
at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, 
trusting that the strange awe, which had gathered over 
him throughout the day, would now be dispelled. But 
such was not the result. When Mr. Hooper came, the 


THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 


59 


first thing that their eyes rested on was the same hor¬ 
rible black veil, which had added deeper gloom to the 
funeral, and could portend nothing but evil to the 
wedding. Such was its immediate effect on the guests 
that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from be¬ 
neath the black crape, and dimmed the light of the 
candles. The bridal pair stood up before the minister. 
But the bride’s cold fingers quivered in the tremulous 
hand of the bridegroom, and her deathlike paleness 
caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried 
a few hours before was come from her grave to be 
married. If ever another wedding were so dismal, it 
was that famous one where they tolled the wedding 
knell. After performing the ceremony, Mr. Hooper 
raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to 
the new-married couple in a strain of mild pleasantry 
that ought to have brightened the features of the 
guests, like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At 
that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the 
looking-glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in 
the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His 
frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the un¬ 
tasted wine upon the carpet, and rushed forth into 
the darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her Black 
Veil. 

The next day, the whole village of Milford talked 
of little else than Parson Hooper’s black veil. That, 
and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic 
for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the 
street, and good women gossiping at their open win¬ 
dows. It was the first item of news that the tavern- 
keeper told to his guests. The children babbled of it 
Dn their way to school. One imitative little imp cov¬ 
ered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby 


60 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


so affrighting his playmates that the panic seized him¬ 
self, and he well-nigh lost his wits by his own waggery. 

It was remarkable that of all the busybodies and 
impertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to 
put the plain question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he 
did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared 
the slightest call for such interference, he had never 
lacked advisers, nor shown himself averse to be guided 
by their judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so 
painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the mildest 
censure would lead him to consider an indifferent ac¬ 
tion as a crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with 
this amiable weakness, no individual among his pa¬ 
rishioners chose to make the black veil a subject of 
friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling of dread, 
neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which 
caused each to shift the responsibility upon another, 
till at length it was found expedient to send a deputa¬ 
tion of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper 
about the mystery, before it should grow into a scan¬ 
dal. Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. 
The minister received them with friendly courtesy, but 
became silent, after they were seated, leaving to his vis¬ 
itors the whole burden of introducing their important 
business. The topic, it might be supposed, was obvi¬ 
ous enough. There was the black veil swathed round 
Mr. Hooper’s forehead, and concealing every feature 
above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could 
perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. But 
that piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to 
hang down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful 
secret between him and them. Were the veil but cast 
aside, they might speak freely of it, but not till then. 
Thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused, 


THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 


61 


and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper’s eye, which 
they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible 
glance. Finally, the deputies returned abashed to 
their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty 
to be handled, except by a council of the churches, if, 
indeed, it might not require a general synod. 

But there was one person in the village unappalled 
by the awe with which the black veil had impressed 
all beside herself. When the deputies returned with¬ 
out an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, 
she, with the calm energy of her character, determined 
to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be 
settling round Mr. Hooper, every moment more darkly 
than before. As his plighted wife, it should be her 
privilege to know what the black veil concealed. At 
the minister’s first visit, therefore, she entered upon 
the subject with a direct simplicity, which made the 
task easier both for him and her. After he had seated 
himself, she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, 
but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that 
had so overawed the multitude: it was but a double 
fold of crape, hanging down from his forehead to his 
mouth, and slightly stirring with his breath. 

“ No,” said she aloud, and smiling, “ there is noth¬ 
ing terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides 
a face which I am always glad to look upon. Come, 
good sir, let the sun shine from behind the cloud. 
First lay aside your black veil: then tell me why you 
put it on.” 

Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly. 

“ There is an hour to come,” said he, “ when all of 
us shall cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss, be¬ 
loved friend, if I wear this piece of crape till then.” 

“ Your words are a mystery, too,” returned the 


62 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


young lady. “Take away the veil from them, at 
least.” 

“ Elizabeth, I will,” said he, “ so far as my vow may 
suffer me. Know, then, this veil is a type and a sym¬ 
bol, and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light and 
darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, 
and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends, 
No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal 
shade must separate me from the world: even you, 
Elizabeth, can never come behind it! ” 

“What grievous affliction hath befallen you,” she 
earnestly inquired, “ that you should thus darken your 
eyes forever ? ” 

“If it be a sign of mourning,” replied Mr. Hooper, 
“ I, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows 
dark enough to be typified by a black veil.” 

“ But what if the world will not believe that it is 
the type of an innocent sorrow?” urged Elizabeth. 
“ Beloved and respected as you are, there may be 
whispers that you hide your face under the conscious¬ 
ness of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office, 
do away this scandal! ” 

The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the 
nature of the rumors that were already abroad in the 
village. But Mr. Hooper’s mildness did not forsake 
him. He even smiled again — that same sad smile, 
which always appeared like a faint glimmering of 
light, proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil. 

“If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause 
enough,” he merely replied; “ and if I cover it for 
secret sin, what mortal might not do the same ? ” 

And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy 
did he resist all her entreaties. At length Elizabeth 
sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


63 


in thought, considering, probably, what new methods 
might be tried to withdraw her lover from so dark a 
fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was per¬ 
haps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a 
firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down 
her cheeks. But, in an instant, as it were, a new feel¬ 
ing took the place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed in¬ 
sensibly on the black veil, when, like a sudden twilight 
in the air, its terrors fell aroimd her. She arose, and 
stood trembling before him. 

“ And do you feel it then, at last ? ” said he mourn- 
fully. 

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her 
hand, and turned to leave the room. He rushed for¬ 
ward and caught her arm. 

“Have patience with me, Elizabeth!” cried he, 
passionately. “Do not desert me, though this veil 
must be between us here on earth. Be mine, and 
hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no dark¬ 
ness between our souls ! It is but a mortal veil—it 
is not for eternity! O! you know not how lonely I 
am, and how frightened, to be alone behind my black 
veil. Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity for¬ 
ever! ” 

“Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face,” 
said she. 

“Never! It cannot be!” replied Mr. Hooper. 

“Then farewell!” said Elizabeth. 

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly 
departed, pausing at the door, to give one long shud¬ 
dering gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the mys¬ 
tery of the black veil. But, even amid his grief, Mr. 
Hooper smiled to think that only a material emblem 
bad separated him from happiness, though the hor* 


64 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


rors, which it shadowed forth, must be drawn darkly 
between the fondest of lovers. 

From that time no attempts were made to remove 
Mr. Hooper’s black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to dis¬ 
cover the secret which it was supposed to hide. By 
persons who claimed a superiority to popular preju¬ 
dice, it was reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such 
as often mingles with the sober actions of men other¬ 
wise rational, and tinges them all with its own sem¬ 
blance of insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr. 
Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not 
walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious 
was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to 
avoid him, and that others would make it a point of 
hardihood to throw themselves in his way. The im¬ 
pertinence of the latter class compelled him to give 
up his customary walk at sunset to the burial ground; 
for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there 
would always be faces behind the gravestones, peep¬ 
ing at his black veil. A fable went the roimds that 
the stare of the dead people drove him thence. It 
grieved him, to the very depth of his kind heart, to 
observe how the children fled from his approach, 
breaking up their merriest sports, while his melan¬ 
choly figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread 
caused him to feel more strongly than aught else, that 
a preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads 
of the black crape. In truth, his own antipathy to 
the veil was known to be so great, that he never will¬ 
ingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at 
a still foimtain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he should 
be affrighted by himself. This was what gave plausi¬ 
bility to the whispers, that Mr. Hooper’s conscience 
tortured him for some great crime too horrible to be 


THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL. 


65 


entirely concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely in¬ 
timated. Thus, from beneath the black veil, there 
rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin 
or sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, so that 
love or sympathy could never reach him. It was said 
that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With 
self-shudderings and outward terrors, he walked con¬ 
tinually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own 
soul, or gazing through a medium that saddened the 
whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was believed, 
respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside the 
veil. But still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the 
pale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by. 

Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the 
one desirable effect, of making its wearer a very effi¬ 
cient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious emblem 
— for there was no other apparent cause — he became 
a man of awful power over souls that were in agony 
for sin. His converts always regarded him with a 
dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but 
figuratively, that, before he brought them to celestial 
light, they had been with him behind the black veil. 
Its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all 
dark affections. Hying sinners cried aloud for Mr. 
Hooper, and would not yield their breath till he ap¬ 
peared ; though ever, as he stooped to whisper conso¬ 
lation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their 
own. Such were the terrors of the black veil, even 
when Death had bared his visage! Strangers came 
long distances to attend service at his church, with the 
mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because it 
was forbidden them to behold his face. But many 
were made to quake ere they departed! Once, during 

Governor Belcher’s administration, Mr. Hooper was 

5 


VOL. I. 


66 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


appointed to preach the election sermon. Covered 
with his black veil, he stood before the chief magis¬ 
trate, the council, and the representatives, and wrought 
&o deep an impression, that the legislative measures 
of that year were characterized by all the gloom and 
piety of our earliest ancestral sway. 

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irre¬ 
proachable in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal sus¬ 
picions ; kind and loving, though unloved, and dimly 
feared; a man apart from men, shunned in their 
health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid in 
mortal anguish. As years wore on, shedding their 
snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name 
throughout the New England churches, and they called 
him Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners, who 
were of mature age when he was settled, had been 
borne away by many a funeral: he had one congrega¬ 
tion in the church, and a more crowded one in the 
churchyard; and having wrought so late into the 
evening, and done his work so well, it was now good 
Father Hooper’s turn to rest. 

Several persons were visible by the shaded candle¬ 
light, in the death chamber of the old clergyman. 
Natural connections he had none. But there was the 
decorously grave, though unmoved physician, seeking 
only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom 
he could not save. There were the deacons, and other 
eminently pious members of his church. There, also, 
was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, a young 
and zealous divine, who had ridden in haste to pray 
by the bedside of the expiring minister. There was 
the nurse, no hired handmaiden of death, but one 
whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, 
in solitude, amid the chill of age, and would not per 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


67 


ish, even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth 1 
And there lay the lioary head of good Father Hooper 
upon the death pillow, with the black veil still swathed 
about his brow, and reaching down over his face, so 
that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused 
it to stir. All through life that piece of crape had 
hung between him and the world: it had separated 
him from cheerful brotherhood and woman’s love, and 
kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own heart; 
and still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen the 
gloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him from 
the sunshine of eternity. 

For some time previous, his mind had been con¬ 
fused, wavering doubtfully between the past and the 
present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, 
into the indistinctness of the world to come. There 
had been feverish turns, which tossed him from side 
to side, and wore away what little strength he had. 
But in his most convulsive struggles, and in the wild¬ 
est vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought 
retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful 
solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. Even 
if his bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was 
a faithful woman at his pillow, who, with averted eyes, 
would have covered that aged face, which she had last 
beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At length the 
death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of 
mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible 
pulse, and breath that grew fainter and fainter, except 
when a long, deep, and irregular inspiration seemed 
to prelude the flight of his spirit. 

The minister of Westbury approached the bedside. 

“Venerable Father Hooper,” said he, “the moment 
of your release is at hand. Are you ready for the lift¬ 
ing of the veil that shuts in time from eternity?” 


68 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble 
motion of his head; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that 
his meaning might be doubtful, he exerted himself to 
speak. 

“ Yea,” said he, in faint accents, “ my soul hath a 
patient weariness until that veil be lifted.” 

“And is it fitting,” resumed the Reverend Mr 0 
Clark, “that a man so given to prayer, of such a 
blameless example, holy in deed and thought, so far 
as mortal judgment may pronounce; is it fitting that 
a father in the church should leave a shadow on his 
memory, that may seem to blacken a life so pure ? I 
pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be! 
Suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect 
as you go to your reward. Before the veil of eternity 
be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from your 
face! ” 

And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark bent 
forward to reveal the mystery of so many years. But, 
exerting a sudden energy, that made all the beholders 
stand aghast, Father Hooper snatched both his hands 
from beneath the bedclothes, and pressed them strongly 
on the black veil, resolute to struggle, if the minister 
of Westbury would contend with a dying man. 

“ Never! ” cried the veiled clergyman. “ On earth, 
never!” 

“ Dark old man ! ” exclaimed the affrighted minister, 
“ with what horrible crime upon your soul are you 
now passing to the judgment ? ” 

Father Hooper’s breath heaved; it rattled in his 
throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping forward 
with his hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back 
till he should speak. He even raised himself in bed; 
and there he sat, shivering with the arms of death 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL. 


69 


around him, while the black veil hung down, awful, at 
that last moment, in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. 
And yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, now 
seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on 
Father Hooper’s lips. 

“Why do you tremble at me alone?” cried he, 
turning his veiled face round the circle of pale spec¬ 
tators. “Tremble also at each other! Have men 
avoided me, and women shown no pity, and children 
screamed and fled, only for my black veil ? What, 
but the mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made 
this piece of crape so awful ? When the friend shows 
his inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best 
beloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the 
eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the se¬ 
cret of his sin; then deem me a monster, for the sym¬ 
bol beneath which I have lived, and die! I look 
around me, and, lo! on every visage a Black Veil! ” 

While his auditors shrank from one another, in 
mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his pil¬ 
low, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering on 
the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and 
a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. The grass 
of many years has sprung up and withered on that 
grave, the burial stone is moss-grown, and good Mr. 
Hooper’s face is dust; but awful is still the thought 
that it mouldered beneath the Black Veil! 


THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 


There is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance in the 
curious history of the early settlement of Mount Wollaston, or Merry 
Mount. In the slight sketch here attempted, the facts, recorded on 
the grave pages of our New England annalists, have wrought them¬ 
selves, almost spontaneously, into a sort of allegory. The masques, 
mummeries, and festive customs, described in the text, are in accord¬ 
ance with the manners of the age. Authority on these points may 
be found in Strutt’s Book of English Sports and Pastimes. 


Bright were the days at Merry Mount, when the 
Maypole was the banner staff of that gay colony! 
They who reared it, should their banner be triumph¬ 
ant, were to pour sunshine over New England’s rugged 
hills, and scatter flower seeds throughout the soil. 
Jollity and gloom were contending for an empire. 
Midsummer eve had come, bringing deep verdure to 
the forest, and roses in her lap, of a more vivid hue 
than the tender buds of Spring. But May, or her 
mirthful spirit, dwelt all the year round at Merry 
Mount, sporting with the Summer months, and revel¬ 
ling with Autumn, and basking in the glow of Win¬ 
ter’s fireside. Through a world of toil and care she 
flitted with a dreamlike smile, and came hither to find 
a home among the lightsome hearts of Merry Mount. 

Never had the Maypole been so gayly decked as at 
sunset on midsummer eve. This venerated emblem 
was a pine-tree, which had preserved the slender grace 
of youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the 
old wood monarchs. From its top streamed a silken 
banner, colored like the rainbow. Down nearly to the 


THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 71 


ground the pole was dressed with birchen boughs, and 
others of the liveliest green, and some with silvery 
leaves, fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic 
knots of twenty different colors, but no sad ones. Gar¬ 
den flowers, and blossoms of the wilderness, laughed 
gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and dewy that 
they must have grown by magic on that happy pine- 
tree. Where this green and flowery splendor termi¬ 
nated, the shaft of the Maypole was stained with the 
seven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. On the 
lowest green bough hung an abundant wreath of roses, 
some that had been gathered in the sunniest spots of 
the forest, and others, of still richer blush, which the 
colonists had reared from English seed. O, people of 
the Golden Age, the chief of your husbandry was to 
raise flowers! 

But what was the wild throng that stood hand in 
hand about the Maypole? It could not be that the 
fauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic 
groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, 
as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the 
West. These were Gothic monsters, though perhaps 
of Grecian ancestry. On the shoulders of a comely 
youth uprose the head and branching antlers of a 
stag; a second, human in all other points, had the 
grim visage of a wolf ; a third, still with the trunk 
and limbs of a mortal man, showed the beard and 
horns of a venerable he-goat. There was the likeness 
of a bear erect, brute in all but his hind legs, which 
were adorned with pink silk stockings. And here 
again, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of the 
dark forest, lending each of his fore paws to the grasp 
of a human hand, and as ready for the dance as any 
in that circle. His inferior nature rose half way, to 


72 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


meet his companions as they stooped. Other faces 
wore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted 
or extravagant, with red noses pendulous before their 
mouths, which seemed of awful depth, and stretched 
from ear to ear in an eternal fit of laughter. Here 
might be seen the Salvage Man, well known in her¬ 
aldry, hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green leaves. 
By his side, a noble figure, but still a counterfeit, ap¬ 
peared an Indian hunter, with feathery crest and wam¬ 
pum belt. Many of this strange company wore fools¬ 
caps, and had little bells appended to their garments, 
tin klin g with a silvery sound, responsive to the inaudi¬ 
ble music of their gleesome spirits. Some youths and 
maidens were of soberer garb, yet well maintained 
their places in the irregular throng by the expression 
of wild revelry upon their features. Such were the 
colonists of Merry Mount, as they stood in the broad 
smile of sunset round their venerated Maypole. 

Had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy for¬ 
est, heard their mirth, and stolen a half-affrighted 
glance, he might have fancied them the crew of Co- 
mus, some already transformed to brutes, some mid¬ 
way between man and beast, and the others rioting 
in the flow of tipsy jollity that foreran the change. 
But a band of Puritans, who watched the scene, invis¬ 
ible themselves, compared the masques to those devils 
and ruined souls with whom their superstition peopled 
the black wilderness. 

Within the ring of monsters appeared the two air¬ 
iest forms that had ever trodden on any more solid 
footing than a purple and golden cloud. One was a 
youth in glistening apparel, with a scarf of the rain¬ 
bow pattern crosswise on his breast. His right hand 
held a gilded staff, the ensign of high dignity among 


THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT . 73 


the revellers, and his left grasped the slender fingers 
of a fair maiden, not less gayly decorated than him¬ 
self. Bright roses glowed in contrast with the dark 
and glossy curls of each, and were scattered round 
their feet, or had sprung up spontaneously there. Be¬ 
hind this lightsome couple, so close to the Maypole 
that its houghs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure 
of an English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked 
with flowers, in heathen fashion, and wearing a chap¬ 
let of the native vine leaves. By the riot of his roll¬ 
ing eye, and the pagan decorations of his holy garb, 
he seemed the wildest monster there, and the very 
Comus of the crew. 

“Votaries of the Maypole,” cried the flower-decked 
priest, “ merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed 
to your mirth. But be this your merriest hour, my 
hearts! Lo, here stand the Lord and Lady of the 
May, whom I, a clerk of Oxford, and high priest of 
Merry Mount, am presently to join in holy matrimony. 
Up with your nimble spirits, ye morris-dancers, green 
men, and glee maidens, bears and wolves, and horned 
gentlemen! Come; a chorus now, rich with the old 
mirth of Merry England, and the wilder glee of this 
fresh forest; and then a dance, to show the youthful 
pair what life is made of, and how airily they should 
go through it! All ye that love the Maypole, lend 
your voices to the nuptial song of the Lord and Lady 
of the May! ” 

This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of 
Merry Mount, where jest and delusion, trick and fan¬ 
tasy, kept up a continual carnival. The Lord and 
Lady of the May, though their titles must be laid 
down at sunset, were really and truly to be partners 
for the dance of life, beginning the measure that same 


74 


• TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


bright eve. The wreath of roses, that hung from the 
lowest green bough of the Maypole, had been twined 
for them, and would be thrown over both their heads, 
in symbol of their flowery union. When the priest 
had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar burst from the 
rout of monstrous figures. 

“ Begin you the stave, reverend Sir,” cried they all; 
“ and never did the woods ring to such a merry peal 
as we of the Maypole shall send up!” 

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cithern, and viol, 
touched with practised minstrelsy, began to play from 
a neighboring thicket, in such a mirthful cadence that 
the boughs of the Maypole quivered to the sound. 
But the May Lord, he of the gilded staff, chancing to 
look into his Lady’s eyes, was wonder struck at the 
almost pensive glance that met his own. 

“Edith, sweet Lady of the May,” whispered he 
reproachfully, “is yon wreath of roses a garland to 
hang above our graves, that you look so sad? O, 
Edith, this is our golden time! Tarnish it not by any 
pensive shadow of the mind; for it may be that noth¬ 
ing of futurity will be brighter than the mere remem¬ 
brance of what is now passing.” 

“ That was the very thought that saddened me! 
How came it in your mind too ? ” said Edith, in a still 
lower tone than he, for it was high treason to be sad 
at Merry Moimt. “ Therefore do I sigh amid this fes¬ 
tive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as 
with a dream, and fancy that these shapes of our jovial 
friends are visionary, and their mirth unreal, and that 
we are no true Lord and Lady of the May. What 
is the mystery in my heart? ” 

Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down 
came a little shower of withering rose leaves from the 


THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 75 

Maypole. Alas, for the young lovers! No sooner 
had their hearts glowed with real passion than they 
were sensible of something vague and unsubstantial 
in their former pleasures, and felt a dreary presenti¬ 
ment of inevitable change. From the moment that 
they truly loved, they had subjected themselves to 
earth’s doom of care and sorrow, and troubled joy. 
and had no more a home at Merry Mount. That was 
Edith’s mystery. Now leave we the priest to marry 
them, and the masquers to sport romid the Maypole, 
till the last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit, 
and the shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the 
dance. Meanwhile, we may discover who these gay 
people were. 

Two hundred years ago, and more, the old world 
and its inhabitants became mutually weary of each 
other. Men voyaged by thousands to the West: some 
to barter glass beads, and such like jewels, for the furs 
of the Indian hunter; some to conquer virgin em¬ 
pires ; and one stern band to pray. But none of these 
motives had much weight with the colonists of Merry 
Mount. Their "leaders were men who had sported so 
long with life, that when Thought and Wisdom came, 
'even these unwelcome guests were led astray by the 
crowd of vanities which they should have put to flight. 
Erring Thought and perverted Wisdom were made 
to put on masques, and play the fool. The men of 
whom we speak, after losing the heart’s fresh gayety, 
imagined a wild philosophy of' pleasure, and came 
hither to act out their latest day-dream. They gath¬ 
ered followers from all that giddy tribe whose whole 
life is like the festal days of soberer men. In their 
train were minstrels, not unknown in London streets: 
wandering players, whose theatres had been the halls 


76 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


of noblemen; mummers, rope-dancers, and mounte* 
banks, who would long be missed at wakes, church 
ales, and fairs; in a word, mirth makers of every 
sort, such as abounded in that age, but now began to 
be discountenanced by the rapid growth of Puritan¬ 
ism. Light had their footsteps been on land, and as 
lightly they came across the sea. Many had been 
maddened by their previous troubles into a gay de- 
. spair; others were as madly gay in the flush of youth, 
like the May Lord and his Lady; but whatever might 
be the quality of their mirth, old and young were gay 
at Merry Mount. The young deemed themselves 
happy. The elder spirits, if they knew that mirth 
was but the counterfeit of happiness, yet followed the 
false shadow wilfully, because at least her garments 
glittered brightest. Sworn triflers of a lifetime, they 
would not venture among the sober truths of life not 
even to be truly blest. 

All the hereditary pastimes of Old England were 
transplanted hither. The King of Christmas was duly 
crowned, and the Lord of Misrule bore potent sway. 
On the Eve of St. John, they felled whole acres of the 
forest to make bonfires, and danced by the blaze all 
night, crowned with garlands, and throwing flowers 
into the flame. At harvest time, though their crop 
was of the smallest, they made an image with the 
sheaves of Indian corn, and wreathed it with autumnal 
garlands, and bore it home triumphantly. But what 
chiefly characterized the colonists of Merry Mount 
was their veneration for the Maypole. It has made 
their true history a poet’s tale. Spring decked the 
hallowed emblem with young blossoms and fresh green 
boughs; Summer brought roses of the deepest blush, 
and the perfected foliage of the forest; Autumn en- 


THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 77 


riched it with that red and yellow gorgeousness which 
converts each wildwood leaf into a painted flower; 
and Winter silvered it with sleet, and hung it round 
with icicles, till it flashed in the cold sunshine, itself a 
frozen sunbeam. Thus each alternate season did hom¬ 
age to the Maypole, and paid it a tribute of its own 
richest splendor. Its votaries danced round it, once, 
at least, in every month; sometimes they called it 
their religion, or their altar; but always, it was the 
banner staff of Merry Mount. 

Unfortunately, there were men in the new world of 
a sterner faith than these Maypole worshippers. Not 
far from Merry Mount was a settlement of Puritans, 
most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before 
daylight, and then wrought in the forest or the corn¬ 
field till evening made it prayer time again. Their 
weapons were always at hand to shoot down the strag¬ 
gling savage. When they met in conclave, it was 
never to keep up the old English mirth, but to hear 
sermons three hours long, or to proclaim bounties on 
the heads of wolves and the scalps of Indians. Their 
festivals were fast days, and their chief pastime the 
singing of psalms. Woe to the youth or maiden who 
did but dream of a dance ! The selectman nodded to 
the constable; and there sat the light-heeled reprobate 
in the stocks; or if he danced, it was round the whip¬ 
ping-post, which might be termed the Puritan May- 
pole. 

A party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the 
difficult woods, each with a horseload of iron armor to 
burden his footsteps, would sometimes draw near the 
sunny precincts of Merry Mount. There were the 
silken colonists, sporting round their Maypole; per¬ 
haps teaching a bear to dance, or striving to communi- 


78 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


cate their mirth to the grave Indian; or masquerad 
ing in the skins of deer and wolves, which they had 
hunted for that especial purpose. Often, the whole 
colony were playing at blindman’s buff, magistrates 
and all, with their eyes bandaged, except a single 
scapegoat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the 
tinkling of the bells at his garments. Once, it is said, 
they were seen following a flower-decked corpse, with 
merriment and festive music, to his grave. But did 
the dead man laugh? In their quietest times, they 
sang ballads and told tales, for the edification of their 
pious visitors ; or perplexed them with juggling tricks ; 
Dr grinned at them through horse collars; and when 
sport itself grew wearisome, they made game of their 
own stupidity, and began a yawning match. At the 
very least of these enormities, the men of iron shook 
their heads and frowned so darkly that the revellers 
looked up, imagining that a momentary cloud had over¬ 
cast the sunshine, which was to be perpetual there. 
On the other hand, the Puritans affirmed that, when 
a psalm was pealing from their place of worship, the 
echo which the forest sent them back seemed often 
like the chorus of a jolly catch, closing with a roar of 
laughter. Who but the fiend, and his bond slaves, 
the crew of Merry Mount, had thus disturbed them? 
In due time, a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, 
and as serious on the other as anything could be among 
such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the May- 
pole. The future complexion of New England was 
involved in this important quarrel. Should the griz¬ 
zly saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay 
sinners, then would their spirits darken all the clime, 
and make it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of 
sermon and psalm forever. But should the banner 


THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 79 


Btaff of Merry Mount be fortunate, sunshine would 
break upon the hills, and flowers would beautify the 
forest, and late posterity do homage to the Maypole. 

After these authentic passages from history, we re¬ 
turn to the nuptials of the Lord and Lady of the May. 
Alas ! we have delayed too long, and must darken oui 
tale too suddenly. As we glance again at the May 
pole, a solitary sunbeam is fading from the summit, 
and leaves only a faint, golden tinge blended with the 
hues of the rainbow banner. Even that dim light is 
now withdrawn, relinquishing the whole domain of 
Merry Mount to the evening gloom, which has rushed 
so instantaneously from the black surrounding woods. 
But some of these black shadows have rushed forth in 
human shape. 

Yes, with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had 
passed from Merry Mount. The ring of gay mas¬ 
quers was disordered and broken; the stag lowered 
his antlers in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a 
lamb; the bells of the morris-dancers tinkled with 
tremulous affright. The Puritans had played a char¬ 
acteristic part in the Maypole mummeries. Their 
darksome figures were intermixed with the wild shapes 
of their foes, and made the scene a picture of the 
moment, when waking thoughts start up amid the 
scattered fantasies of a dream. The leader of the 
hostile party stood in the centre of the circle, while 
the route of monsters cowered around him, like evil 
spirits in the presence of a dread magician. No fan¬ 
tastic foolery could look him in the face. So stern 
was the energy of his aspect, that the whole man, vis¬ 
age, frame, and soul, seemed wrought of iron, gifted 
with life and thought, yet all of one substance with 
his headpiece and breastplate. It was the Puritan of 
Puritans; it was Endicott himself! 


80 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ Stand off, priest of Baal! ” said he, with a grim 
frown, and laying no reverent hand upon the surplice. 
“ I know thee, Blackstone! 1 Thou art the man who 
couldst not abide the ride even of thine own corrupted 
church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity, and 
to give example of it in thy life. But now shall it be 
seen that the Lord hath sanctified this wilderness for 
his peculiar people. Woe imto them that would defile 
it! And first, for this flower-decked abomination, the 
altar of thy worship ! ” 

And with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the 
hallowed Maypole. Nor long did it resist his arm. 
It groaned with a dismal sound; it showered leaves 
and rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast; and 
finally, with all its green boughs and ribbons and 
flowers, symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the 
banner staff of Merry Mount, As it sank, tradition 
says, the evening sky grew darker, and the woods 
threw forth a more sombre shadow. 

“ There,” cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on 
his work, “ there lies the only Maypole in New Eng¬ 
land ! The thought is strong within me that, by its 
fall, is shadowed forth the fate of light and idle mirth 
makers, amongst us and our posterity. Amen, saith 
John Endicott.” 

“ Amen! ” echoed his followers. 

But the votaries of the Maypole gave one groan for 
their idol. At the sound, the Puritan leader glanced 
at the crew of Comus, each a figure of broad mirth, 
yet, at tills moment, strangely expressive of sorrow 
and dismay. 

1 Did Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should suspect 
a mistake here. The Rev. Mr. Blackstone, though an eccentric, is 
not known to have been an immoral man. We rather doubt his iden 
tity with the priest of Merry Mount. 


THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 81 


“Valiant captain,” quotli Peter Palfrey, the Ancient 
of the band, “what order shall be taken with the 
prisoners ? ” 

“ I thought not to repent me of cutting down a 
Maypole,” replied Endicott, “yet now I could find 
in my heart to plant it again, and give each of these 
bestial pagans one other dance round their idol. It 
would have served rarely for a whipping-post! ” 

“ But there are pine-trees enow,” suggested the lieu¬ 
tenant. 

“ True, good Ancient,” said the leader. “Where¬ 
fore, bind the heathen crew, and bestow on them a 
small matter of stripes apiece, as earnest of our future 
justice. Set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest 
themselves, so soon as Providence shall bring us to 
one of our own well-ordered settlements, where such 
accommodations may be found. Further penalties, 
such as branding and cropping of ears, shall be 
thought of hereafter.” 

“ How many stripes for the priest?” inquired An¬ 
cient Palfrey. 

“None as yet,” answered Endicott, bending his iron 
frown upon the culprit. “ It must be for the Great 
and General Court to determine, whether stripes and 
long imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may 
atone for his transgressions. Let him look to him¬ 
self ! For such as violate our civil order, it may be 
permitted us to show mercy. But woe to the wretch 
that troubleth our religion ! ” 

“ And this dancing bear,” resumed the officer. 
“ Must he share the stripes of his fellows?” 

“ Shoot liun through the head! ” said the energetic 
Puritan. “I suspect witchcraft in the beast.” 

“Here be a couple of shining ones,” continued 

vol. i. 6 


82 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


Peter Palfrey, pointing his weapon at the Lord and 
Lady of the May. “ They seem to be of high station 
among these misdoers. Methinks their dignity will 
not be fitted with less than a double share of stripes.” 

Endicott rested on his sword, and closely surveyed 
the dress and aspect of the hapless pair. There they 
stood, pale, downcast, and apprehensive. Yet there 
was an air of mutual support, and of pure affection, 
seeking aid and giving it, that showed them to be 
man and wife, with the sanction of a priest upon their 
love. The youth, in the peril of the moment, had 
dropped his gilded staff, and thrown his arm about 
the Lady of the May, who leaned against his breast, 
too lightly to burden him, but with weight enough to 
express that their destinies were linked together, for 
good or evil. They looked first at each other, and 
then into the grim captain’s face. There they stood, 
in the first hour of wedlock, while the idle pleasures, 
of which their companions were the emblems, had 
given place to the sternest cares of life, personified 
by the dark Puritans. But never had their youthful 
beauty seemed so pure and high as when its glow was 
chastened by adversity. 

“Youth,” said Endicott, “ye stand in an evil case 
thou and thy maiden wife. Make ready presently, 
for I am minded that ye shall both have a token to 
remember your wedding day! ” 

“ Stern man,” cried the May Lord, “ how can I 
move thee ? Were the means at hand, I would resist 
to the death. Being powerless, I entreat! Do with 
me as thou wilt, but let Edith go untouched ! ” 

“Not so,” replied the immitigable zealot. “We 
are not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex, 
which requireth the stricter discipline. What sayest 


THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 83 


thou, maid? Shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy 
share of the penalty, besides his own ? ” 

“ Be it death,” said Edith, “ and lay it all on me! ” 

Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood 
in a wofid case. Their foes were triumphant, their 
friends captive and abased, their home desolate, the 
benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous 
destiny, in the shape of the Puritan leader, their only 
guide. Yet the deepening twilight could not altogether 
conceal that the iron man was softened; he smiled at 
the fair spectacle of early love; he almost sighed for 
the inevitable blight of early hopes. 

“The troubles of life have come hastily on thi* 
young couple,” observed Endicott. “ We will see how 
they comport themselves under their present trials ere 
we burden them with greater. If, among the spoil, 
there be any garments of a more decent fashion, let 
them be put upon this May Lord and his Lady, in¬ 
stead of their glistening vanities. Look to it, some of 
you.” 

“And shall not the youth’s hair be cut?” asked 
Peter Palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the love¬ 
lock and long glossy curls of the young man. 

“ Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin- 
shell fashion,” answered the captain. “ Then bring 
them along with us, but more gently than their fel¬ 
lows. There be qualities in the youth, which may 
make him valiant to fight, and sober to toil, and pious 
to pray; and in the maiden, that may fit her to be¬ 
come a mother in our Israel, bringing up babes in 
better nurture than her own hath been. Nor think 
ye, young ones, that they are the happiest, even in 
our lifetime of a moment, who misspend it in dancf 
ing roimd a Maypole I ” 


84 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


And Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid 
the rock foundation of New England, lifted the wreath 
of roses from the ruin of the Maypole, and threw it, 
with his own gauntleted hand, over the heads of the 
Lord and Lady of the May. It was a deed of proph¬ 
ecy. As the moral gloom of the world overpowers all 
systematic gayety, even so was their home of wild mirth 
made desolate amid the sad forest. They returned to 
it no more. But as their flowery garland was wreathed 
of the brightest roses that had grown there, so, in the 
tie that united them, were intertwined all the purest 
and best of their early joys. They went heavenward, 
supporting each other along the difficult path which it 
was their lot to tread, and never wasted one regretful 
thought on the vanities of Merry Mount. 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


In the course of the year 1656, several of the peo¬ 
ple called Quakers, led, as they professed, by the in¬ 
ward movement of the spirit, made their appearance 
in New England. Their reputation, as holders of 
mystic and pernicious principles, having spread before 
them, the Puritans early endeavored to banish, and to 
prevent the further intrusion of the rising sect. But 
the measures by which it was intended to purge the 
land of heresy, though more than sufficiently vigorous, 
were entirely unsuccessful. The Quakers, esteeming 
persecution as a divine call to the post of danger, laid 
claim to a holy courage, unknown to the Puritans 
themselves, who had shunned the cross, by providing 
for the peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant 
wilderness. Though it was the singular fact, that 
every nation of the earth rejected the wandering en¬ 
thusiasts who practised peace towards all men, the 
place of greatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore, 
in their eyes the most eligible, was the province of 
Massachusetts Bay. 

The fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally dis¬ 
tributed by our pious forefathers; the popular antip¬ 
athy, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years 
after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions 
as powerful for the Quakers, as j>eace, honor, and re¬ 
ward, would have been for the worldly minded. Every 
European vessel brought new cargoes of the sect, eager 
to testify against the oppression which they hoped to 


86 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


share ; and when shipmasters were restrained by heavy 
fines from affording them passage, they made long 
and circuitous journeys through the Indian country, 
and appeared in the province as if conveyed by a 
supernatural power. Their enthusiasm, heightened al¬ 
most to madness by the treatment which they received, 
produced actions contrary to the rules of decency, as 
well as of rational religion, and presented a singular 
contrast to the calm and staid deportment of their 
sectarian successors of the present day. The com¬ 
mand of the spirit, inaudible except to the soul, and 
not to be controverted on grounds of human wisdom, 
was made a plea for most indecorous exhibitions, 
which, abstractedly considered, well deserved the mod¬ 
erate chastisement of the rod. These extravagances, 
and the persecution which was at once their cause and 
consequence, continued to increase, till, in the year 
1659, the government of Massachusetts Bay indulged 
two members of the Quaker sect with the crown of 
martyrdom. 

An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all 
who consented to this act, but a large share of the aw¬ 
ful responsibility must rest upon the person then at 
the head of the government. He was a man of narrow 
mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromis¬ 
ing bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent 
and hasty passions; he exerted his influence indeco¬ 
rously and imjustifiably to compass the death of the 
enthusiasts; and his whole conduct, in respect to them, 
was marked by brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose 
revengeful feelings were not less deep because they 
were inactive, remembered this man and his associates 
in after times. The historian of the sect affirms that, 
by the wrath of Heaven, a blight fell upon the land in 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


87 


the vicinity of the “ bloody town ” of Boston, so that 
no wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand, 
as it were, among the graves of the ancient persecu¬ 
tors, and triumphantly recounts the judgments that 
overtook them, in old age or at the parting hour. He 
tells us that they died suddenly and violently and in 
madness; but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery 
with which he records the loathsome disease, and 
“death by rottenness,” of the fierce and cruel gov¬ 
ernor. 

• •••••••• 

On the evening of the autumn day that had wit¬ 
nessed the martyrdom of two men of the Quaker 
persuasion, a Puritan settler was returning from the 
metropolis to the neighboring country town in which 
he resided. The air was cool, the sky clear, and the 
lingering twilight was made brighter by the rays of a 
young moon, which had now nearly reached the verge 
of the horizon. The traveller, a man of middle age, 
wrapped in a gray frieze cloak, quickened his pace 
when he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a 
gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him 
and his home. The low, straw-thatched houses were 
scattered at considerable intervals along the road, and 
the country having been settled but about thirty years, 
the tracts of original forest still bore no small pro¬ 
portion to the cultivated ground. The autumn wind 
wandered among the branches, whirling away the 
leaves from all except the pine-trees, and moaning as 
if it lamented the desolation of which it was the in¬ 
strument. The road had penetrated the mass of 
woods that lay nearest to the town, and was just 
emerging into an open space, when the traveller’s ears 
were saluted by a sound more mournful than even 


88 TWICE-TOLD TALES. 

that of the wind. It was like the wailing of some 
one in distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath 
a tall and lonely fir-tree, in the centre of a cleared 
but uninclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan 
could not but remember that this was the very spot 
which had been made accursed a few hours before by 
the execution of the Quakers, whose bodies had been 
thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree 
on which they suffered. He struggled, however, 
against the superstitious fears which belonged to the 
age, and compelled himself to pause and listen. 

“ The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause 
to tremble if it be otherwise,” thought he, straining 
his eyes through the dim moonlight. “ Me thinks it is 
like the wailing of a child; some infant, it may be, 
which has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon 
this place of death. For the ease of mine own con¬ 
science I must search this matter out.” 

He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat 
fearfully across the field. Though now so desolate, its 
soil was pressed down and trampled by the thousand 
footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of 
that day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the 
dead to their loneliness. The traveller at length 
reached the fir-tree, which from the middle upward 
was covered with living branches, although a scaffold 
had been erected beneath, and other preparations 
made for the work of death. Under this unhappy 
tree, which in after times was believed to drop poison 
with its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent 
blood. It was a slender and light clad little boy, who 
leaned his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and 
half-frozen earth, and wailed bitterly, yet in a sup. 
pressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punish 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


89 


ment of crime. The Puritan, whose approach had 
been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child’s 
shoulder, and addressed him compassionately. 

“You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, 
and no wonder that you weep,” said he. “ But dry 
your eyes, and tell me where your mother dwells. I 
promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave 
you in her arms to-night.” 

The.boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned 
his face upward to the stranger. It was a pale, bright¬ 
eyed countenance, certainly not more than six years 
old, but sorrow, fear, and want had destroyed much 
of its infantile expression. The Puritan seeing the 
boy’s frightened gaze, and feeling that he trembled 
under his hand, endeavored to reassure him. 

“ Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the 
readiest way were to leave you here. What! you do 
not fear to sit beneath the gallows on a new-made 
grave, and yet you tremble at a friend’s touch. Take 
heart, child, and tell me what is your name and where 
is your home? ” 

“Friend,” replied the little boy, in a sweet though 
faltering voice, “ they call me Ilbrahim, and my home 
is here.” 

The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to 
mingle with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and 
the outlandish name, almost made the Puritan believe 
that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung 
up out of the grave on which he sat. But perceiving 
that the apparition stood the test of a short mental 
prayer, and remembering that the arm which he had 
touched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational sup¬ 
position. “ The poor child is stricken in his intellect,” 
thought he, “but verily his words are fearful in a 


90 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


place like this.” He then spoke soothingly, intending 
to humor the boy’s fantasy. 

“ Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, 
this cold autumn night, and I fear you are ill-provided 
with food. I am hastening to a warm supper and bed, 
and if you will go with me you shall share them! ” 

u I thank thee, friend, but though I be hungry, and 
shivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor 
lodging,” replied the boy, in the quiet tone which 
despair had taught him, even so young. “My father 
was of the people whom all men hate. They have laid 
him under this heap of earth, and here is my home.” 

The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s 
hand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loath¬ 
some reptile. But he possessed a compassionate heart, 
which not even religious prejudice could harden into 
stone. 

“ God forbid that I should leave this child to per¬ 
ish, though he comes of the accursed sect,” said he to 
himself. “ Do we not all spring from an evil root? 
Are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine 
upon us ? He shall not perish, neither in body, nor, 
if prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul.” 
He then spoke aloud and kindly to Ilbrahim, who had 
again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave. 
“ Was every door in the land shut against you, my 
child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed 
spot ? ” 

“ They drove me forth from the prison when they 
took my father thence,” said the boy, “ and I stood 
afar off watching the crowd of people, and when they 
were gone I came hither, and found only his grave. 
I knew that my father was sleeping here, and I said 
this shall be my home.” 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


91 


“ No, child, no; not while I have a roof over my 
head, or a morsel to share with you! ” exclaimed the 
Puritan, whose sympathies were now fully excited. 
“ Rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm.” 

The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of 
earth as if the cold heart beneath it were warmer to 
him than any in a living breast. The traveller, how¬ 
ever, continued to entreat him tenderly, and seeming 
to acquire some degree of confidence, he at length 
arose. But his slender limbs tottered with weakness, 
his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the 
tree of death for support. 

“ My poor boy, are you so feeble ? ” said the Puri¬ 
tan. “ When did you taste food last ? ” 

“ I ate of bread and water with my father in the 
prison,” replied Ilbrahim, “ but they brought him none 
neither yesterday nor to-day, saying that he had eaten 
enough to bear him to his journey’s end. Trouble not 
thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for I have lacked 
food many times ere now.” 

The traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped 
his cloak about him, while his heart stirred with shame 
and anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the instru¬ 
ments in tliis persecution. In the awakened warmth 
of his feelings he resolved that, at whatever risk, he 
would not forsake the poor little defenceless being 
whom Heaven had confided to his care. With this 
determination he left the accursed field, and resumed 
the homeward path from which the wailing of the boy 
had called him. The light and motionless burden 
scarcely impeded his progress, and he soon beheld the 
fire rays from the windows of the cottage which he, a 
native of a distant clime, had built in the western wil¬ 
derness. It was surrounded by a considerable extent 


92 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


of cultivated ground, and the dwelling was situated in 
the nook of a wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to 
have crept for protection. 

“Look up, child,” said the Puritan to Ilhrahim, 
whose faint head had sunk upon his shoulder, “ there 
is our home.” 

At the word “home,” a thrill passed through the 
child’s frame, but he continued silent. A few moments 
brought them to a cottage door, at which the owner 
knocked; for at that early period, when savages were 
wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and 
bar were indispensable to the security of a dwelling. 
The summons was answered by a bond-servant, a 
coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of humanity, who, 
after ascertaining that his master was the applicant, 
undid the door, and held a flaring pine-knot torch to 
light him in. Farther back in the passage-way, the 
red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little 
crowd of children came bounding forth to greet their 
father’s return. As the Puritan entered, he thrust 
aside his cloak, and displayed Ilbrahim’s face to the 
female. 

“ Dorothy, here is a little outcast, whom Providence 
hath put into our hands,” observed he. “ Be kind to 
him, even as if he were of those dear ones who have 
departed from us.” 

“ What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, To¬ 
bias? ” she inquired. “ Is he one whom the wilderness 
folk have ravished from some Christian mother?” 

“No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from 
the wilderness,” he replied. “The heathen savage 
would have given him to eat of his scanty morsel, and 
to drink of his birchen cup; but Christian men, alas I 
had cast him out to die.” 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


93 


Then lie told her how he had found him beneath 
the gallows, upon his father’s grave; and how his 
heart had prompted him, like the speaking of an in¬ 
ward voice, to take the little outcast home, and be 
kind unto him. He acknowledged his resolution to 
feed and clothe him, as if he were his own child, and 
to afford him the instruction which should coimteract 
the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into his infant 
mind. Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker ten¬ 
derness than her husband, and she approved of all his 
doings and intentions. 

“ Have you a mother, dear child ? ” she inquired. 

The tears burst forth from his full heart, as he at¬ 
tempted to reply; but Dorothy at length understood 
that he had a mother, who, like the rest of her sect, 
was a persecuted wanderer. She had been taken from 
the prison a short time before, carried into the unin¬ 
habited wilderness, and left to perish there by hunger 
or wild beasts. This was no uncommon method of 
disposing of the Quakers, and they were accustomed 
to boast that the inhabitants of the desert were more 
hospitable to them than civilized man. 

“ Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, 
and a kind one,” said Dorothy, when she had gathered 
this information. “ Dry your tears, Ilbrahim, and be 
aiy child, as I will be your mother.” 

The good woman prepared the little bed, from 
which her own children had successively been borne to 
another resting-place. Before Ilbrahim would consent 
to occupy it, he knelt down, and as Dorothy listened 
to his simple and affecting prayer, she marvelled how 
the parents that had taught it to him could have been 
judged worthy of death. When the boy had fallen 
asleep, she bent over his pale and spiritual counte 


94 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


nance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, drew the 
bedclothes up about his neck, and went away with a 
pensive gladness in her heart. 

Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emi¬ 
grants from the old country. He had remained in 
England during the first years of the- civil war, in 
which he had borne some share as a cornet of dra¬ 
goons, under Cromwell. But when the ambitious de¬ 
signs of his leader began to develop themselves, he 
quitted the army of the Parliament, and sought a ref¬ 
uge from the strife, which was no longer holy, among 
the people of his persuasion in the colony of Massa¬ 
chusetts. A more worldly consideration had perhaps 
an influence in drawing him thither ; for New England 
offered advantages to men of unprosperous fortunes, 
as well as to dissatisfied religionists, and Pearson had 
hitherto found it difficult to provide for a wife and in¬ 
creasing family. To this supposed impurity of motive 
the more bigoted Puritans were inclined to impute the 
removal by death of all the children, for whose earthly 
good the father had been over-thoughtful. They had 
left their native country blooming like roses, and like 
roses they had perished in a foreign soil. Those ex¬ 
pounders of the ways of Providence, who had thus 
judged their brother, and attributed his domestic sor¬ 
rows to his sin, were not more charitable when they 
saw him and Dorothy endeavoring to fill up the void 
in their hearts by the adoption of an infant of the 
accursed sect. Nor did they fail to communicate 
their disapprobation to Tobias; but the latter, in re¬ 
ply, merely pointed at the little, quiet, lovely boy, 
whose appearance and deportment were indeed as pow¬ 
erful arguments as could‘possibly have been adduced 
in his own favor. Even his beauty, however, and his 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


95 


winning manners, sometimes produced an effect ulti* 
mately unfavorable; for the bigots, when the outer 
surfaces of their iron hearts had been softened and 
again grew hard, affirmed that no merely natural 
cause could have so worked upon them. 

Their antipathy to the poor infant was also in¬ 
creased by the ill success of divers theological discus¬ 
sions, in which it was attempted to convince him of 
the errors of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a 
skilful controversialist; but the feeling of his religion 
was strong as instinct in him, and he could neither be 
enticed nor driven from the faith which his father had 
died for. The odium of this stubbornness was shared 
in a great measure by the child’s protectors, insomuch 
that Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began to expe¬ 
rience a most bitter species of persecution, in the cold 
regards of many a friend whom they had valued. The 
common people manifested their opinions more openly. 
Pearson was a man of some consideration, being a 
representative to the General Court, and an approved 
lieutenant in the trainbands, yet within a week after 
his adoption of Ilbrahim he had been both hissed and 
hooted. Once, also, when walking through a solitary 
piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from some in¬ 
visible speaker ; and it cried, “ What shall be done to 
the backslider ? Lo ! the scourge is knotted for him, 
even the whip of nine cords, and every cord three 
knots!” These insults irritated Pearson’s temper for 
the moment; they entered also into his heart, and be¬ 
came imperceptible but powerful workers towards an 
end which his most secret thought had not yet whis¬ 
pered. 

On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a 


96 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


member of their family, Pearson and his wife deemed 
it proper that he should appear with them at public 
worship. They had anticipated some opposition to 
this measure from the boy, but he prepared himself 
in silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the 
new mourning suit which Dorothy had wrought for 
him. As the parish was then, and during many sub¬ 
sequent years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for 
the commencement of religious exercises was the beat 
of a drum. At the first sound of that martial call 
to the place of holy and quiet thoughts, Tobias and 
Dorothy set forth, each holding a hand of little Ilbra- 
him, like two parents linked together by the infant of 
their love. On their path through the leafless woods 
they were overtaken by many persons of their ac¬ 
quaintance, all of whom avoided them, and passed by 
on the other side ; but a severer trial awaited their 
constancy when they had descended the hill, and drew 
near the pine-built and undecorated house of prayer. 
Around the door, from which the drummer still sent 
forth his thundering summons, was drawn up a for¬ 
midable phalanx, including several of the oldest mem¬ 
bers of the congregation, many of the middle aged, 
and nearly all the younger males. Pearson found 
it difficult to sustain their united and disapproving 
gaze, but Dorothy, whose mind was differently circum¬ 
stanced, merely drew the boy closer to her, and fal¬ 
tered not in her approach. As they entered the door, 
they overheard the muttered sentiments of the assem¬ 
blage, and when the reviling voices of the little chil¬ 
dren smote Ilbrahim’s ear, he wept. 

The interior aspect of the meeting-house was rude. 
The low ceiling, the unplastered walls, the naked 
wood work, and the undraperied pulpit, offered noth- 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


97 


ing to excite the devotion, which, without such exter¬ 
nal aids, often remains latent in the heart. The floor 
of the building was occupied by rows of long, cushion¬ 
less benches, supplying the place of pews, and the 
broad aisle formed a sexual division, impassable ex¬ 
cept by children beneath a certain age. 

Pearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the 
meeting-house, and Ilbrahim, being within the years 
of infancy, was retained under the care of the latter. 
The wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their 
rusty cloaks as he passed by; even the mild-featured 
maidens seemed to dread contamination ; and many 
a stern old man arose, and turned his repulsive and 
unheavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the 
sanctuary were polluted by his presence. He was a 
sweet infant of the skies that had strayed away from 
his home, and all the inhabitants of this miserable 
world closed up their impure hearts against him, drew 
back their earth-soiled garments from his touch, and 
said, “We are holier than thou.” 

Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother, 
and retaining fast hold of her hand, assumed a grave 
and decorous demeanor, such as might befit a person 
of matured taste and understanding, who should find 
himself in a temple dedicated to some worship which 
he did not recognize, but felt himself boimd to respect. 
The exercises had not yet commenced, however, when 
the boy’s attention was arrested by an event, appar¬ 
ently of trifling interest. A woman, having her face 
muffled in a hood, and a cloak drawn completely about 
her form, advanced slowly up the broad aisle and took 
a place upon the foremost bench. Ilbrahim s faint 
color varied, his nerves fluttered, he was unable to 
turn his eyes from the muffled female. 

VOL. I. 7 


98 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


When the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, 
the minister arose, and having turned the hour-glass 
which stood by the great Bible, commenced his dis¬ 
course. lie was now well stricken in years, a man of 
pale, thin countenance, and his gray hairs were closely 
covered by a black velvet skullcap. In his younger 
days he had practically learned the meaning of perse¬ 
cution from Archbishop Laud, and he was not now 
disposed to forget the lesson against which he had 
murmured then. Introducing the often discussed sub¬ 
ject of the Quakers, he gave a history of that sect, and 
a description of their tenets, in which error predomi¬ 
nated, and prejudice distorted the aspect of what was 
true. He adverted to the recent measures in the prov¬ 
ince, and cautioned his hearers of weaker parts against 
calling in question the just severity which God-fear¬ 
ing magistrates had at length been compelled to exer¬ 
cise. He spoke of the danger of pity, in some cases a 
commendable and Christian virtue, but inapplicable to 
this pernicious sect. He observed that such was their 
devilish obstinacy in error, that even the little chil¬ 
dren, the sucking babes, were hardened and desperate 
heretics. He affirmed that no man, without Heaven’s 
especial warrant, should attempt their conversion, lest 
while he lent his hand to draw them from the slough, 
he should himself be precipitated into its lowest 
depths. 

The sands of the second hour were principally in 
the lower half of the glass when the sermon concluded. 
An approving murmur followed, and the clergyman, 
having given out a hymn, took his seat with much 
self-congratulation, and endeavored to read the effect 
of his eloquence in the visages of the people. But 
while voices from all parts of the house were tuning 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


99 


themselves to sing, a scene occurred, which, though 
not very unusual at that period in the province, hap¬ 
pened to be without precedent in this parish. 

The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless 
in the front rank of the audience, now arose, and with 
slow, stately, and unwavering step, ascended the pul¬ 
pit stairs. The quiverings of incipient harmony were 
hushed, and the divine sat in speechless and almost 
terrified astonishment, while she undid the door, and 
stood up in the sacred desk from which his maledic¬ 
tions had just been thundered. She then divested her¬ 
self of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most 
singular array. A shapeless robe of sackcloth was 
girded about her waist with a knotted cord; her raven 
hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness 
was defiled by pale streaks of ashes, which she had 
strown upon her head. Her eyebrows, dark and 
strongly defined, added to the deathly whiteness of a 
countenance, which, emaciated with want, and wild 
with enthusiasm and strange sorrows, retained no trace 
of earlier beauty. This figure stood gazing earnestly 
on the audience, and there was no sound, nor any 
movement, except a faint shuddering which every man 
observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely conscious 
of in himself. At length, when her fit of inspiration 
came, she spoke, for the first few moments, in a low 
voice, and not invariably distinct utterance. Her dis¬ 
course gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly 
entangled with her reason; it was a vague and in¬ 
comprehensible rhapsody, which, however, seemed to 
spread its own atmosphere round the hearer’s soul, 
and to move his feelings by some influence uncon¬ 
nected with the words. As she proceeded, beautiful 
but shadowy images would sometimes be seen, like 


L.ofC. 


100 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


bright things moving in a turbid river; or a strong 
and singularly-shaped idea leaped forth, and seized 
at once on the understanding or the heart. But the 
course of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the 
persecutions of her sect, and from thence the step was 
short to her own peculiar sorrows. She was naturally 
a woman of mighty passions, and hatred and revenge 
now wrapped themselves in the garb of piety; the 
character of her speech was changed, her images be¬ 
came distinct though wild, and her denunciations had 
an almost hellish bitterness. 

“The Governor and his mighty men,” she said, 
“ have gathered together, taking counsel among them¬ 
selves and saying, ‘What shall we do unto this people 
— even unto the people that have come into this land 
to put our iniquity to the blush ? ’ And lo ! the devil 
entereth into the council chamber, like a lame man of 
low stature and gravely apparelled, with a dark and 
twisted countenance, and a bright, downcast eye. And 
he standeth up among the riders; yea, he goeth to and 
fro, whispering to each; and every man lends his ear, 
for his word is ‘ Slay, slay! ’ But I say unto ye, 
Woe to them that slay ! Woe to them that shed the 
blood of saints! Woe to them that have slain the 
husband, and cast forth the child, the tender infant, 
to wander homeless and hmigry and cold, till he die; 
and have saved the mother alive, in the cruelty of their 
tender mercies! Woe to them in their lifetime! cursed 
are they in the delight and pleasure of their hearts ! 
Woe to them in their death hour, whether it come 
swiftly with blood and violence, or after long and 
lingering pain ! Woe, in the dark house, in the rot« 
tenness of the grave, when the children’s children shall 
revile the ashes of the fathers! Woe, woe, woe, at 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


101 


the judgment, when all the persecuted and all the slain 
in this bloody land, and the father, the mother, and 
the child, shall await them in a day that they cannot 
escape ! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose 
hearts are moving with a power that ye know not, 
arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood! Lift 
your voices, chosen ones; cry aloud, and call down a 
woe and a judgment with me! ” 

Having thus given vent to the flood of malignity 
which she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was 
silent. Her voice was succeeded by the hysteric shrieks 
of several women, but the feelings of the audience gen¬ 
erally had not been drawn onward in the current with 
her own. They remained stupefied, stranded as it 
were, in the midst of a torrent, which deafened them 
by its roaring, but might not move them by its vio¬ 
lence. The clergyman, who could not hitherto have 
ejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by 
bodily force, now addressed her in the tone of just in¬ 
dignation and legitimate authority. 

“ Get you down, woman, from the holy place which 
you profane,” he said. “ Is it to the Lord’s house 
that you come to pour forth the foulness of your heart 
and the inspiration of the devil ? Get you down, 
and remember that the sentence of death is on you; 
yea, and shall be executed, were it but for this day’s 
work! ” 

“ I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utter¬ 
ance,” replied she, in a depressed and even mild tone. 
“ I have done my mission imto thee and to thy people. 
Reward me with stripes, imprisonment, or death, as ye 
shall be permitted.” 

The weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps 
to totter as she descended the pulpit stairs. The peo- 


102 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


pie, in the mean while, were stirring to and fro on the 
floor of the house, whispering among themselves, and 
glancing towards the intruder. Many of them now 
recognized her as the woman who had assaulted the 
Governor with frightful language as he passed by the 
window of her prison; they knew, also, that she was 
adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved only 
by an involuntary banishment into the wilderness. 
The new outrage, by which she had provoked her fate, 
seemed to render further lenity impossible; and a gen* 
tleman in military dress, with a stout man of inferior 
rank, drew towards the door of the meeting-house, and 
awaited her approach. 

Scarcely did her feet press the floor, however, when 
an unexpected scene occurred. In that moment of 
her peril, when every eye frowned with death, a little 
timid boy pressed forth, and threw his arms round his 
mother. 

“ I am here, mother; it is I, and I will go with thee 
to prison,” he exclaimed. 

She gazed at him with a doubtful and almost fright¬ 
ened expression, for she knew that the boy had been 
cast out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his 
face again. She feared, perhaps, that it was but one 
of the happy visions with which her excited fancy had 
often deceived her, in the solitude of the desert or in 
prison. But when she felt his hand warm within her 
own, and heard his little eloquence of childish love, 
she began to know that she was yet a mother. 

“ Blessed art thou, my son,” she sobbed. “ My heart 
was withered; yea, dead with thee and with thy father; 
and now it leaps as in the first moment when I pressed 
thee to my bosom.” 

She knelt down and embraced him again and again, 


THE GENTLE BOY. 103 

while the joy that could find no words expressed itself 
in broken accents, like the bubbles gushing up to van¬ 
ish at the surface of a deep fountain. The sorrows of 
past years, and the darker peril that was nigh, cast 
not a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting mo¬ 
ment. Soon, however, the spectators saw a change 
upon her face, as the consciousness of her sad estate 
returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which 
joy had opened. By the words she uttered, it would 
seem that the indulgence of natural love had given her 
mind a momentary sense of its errors, and made her 
know how far she had strayed from duty in following 
the dictates of a wild fanaticism. 

“ In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor 
boy,” she said, “for thy mother’s path has gone dark¬ 
ening onward, till now the end is death. Son, son, I 
have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were tot¬ 
tering, and I have fed thee with the food that I was 
fainting for; yet I have ill performed a mother’s part 
by thee in life, and now I leave thee no inheritance but 
woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking through the 
world, and find all hearts closed against thee and their 
sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake. My 
child, my child, how many a pang awaits thy gentle 
spirit, and I the cause of ail! ” 

She hid her face on Ilbrahim’s head, and her long, 
raven hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourning, 
fell down about him like a veil. A low and inter¬ 
rupted moan was the voice of her heart’s anguish, and 
it did not fail to move the sympathies of many who 
mistook their involuntary virtue for a sin. Sobs were 
audible in the female section of the house, and every 
man who was a father drew his hand across his eyes. 
Tobias Pearson was agitated and uneasy, but a certain 


104 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


feeling like the consciousness of guilt oppressed him, 
so that he could not go forth and offer himself as the 
protector of the child. Dorothy, however, had watched 
her husband’s eye. Her mind was free from the in¬ 
fluence that had begun to work on his, and she drew 
near the Quaker woman, and addressed her in the 
hearing of all the congregation. 

“ Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his 
mother,” she said, taking Ilbrahim’s hand. “Provi¬ 
dence has signally marked out my husband to protect 
him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under 
our roof now many days, till our hearts have grown 
very strongly unto him. Leave the tender child with 
us, and be at ease concerning his welfare.” 

The Quaker rose from the ground, but drew the boy 
closer to her, while she gazed earnestly in Dorothy’s 
face. Her mild but saddened features, and neat ma¬ 
tronly attire, harmonized together, and were like a 
verse of fireside poetry. Her very aspect proved that 
she was blameless, so far as mortal could be so, in re¬ 
spect to God and man; while the enthusiast, in her 
robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had as 
evidently violated the duties of the present life and 
the future, by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. 
The two females, as they held each a hand of Ilbrahim, 
formed a practical allegory; it was rational piety and 
unbridled fanaticism contending for the empire of a 
young heart. 

“Thou art not of our people,” said the Quaker, 
mournfully. 

“ No, we are not of your people,” replied Dorothy, 
with mildness, “ but we are Christians, looking up¬ 
ward to the same heaven with you. Doubt not that 
your boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


105 


on our tender and prayerful guidance of him. Thither, 
I trust, my own children have gone before me, for I 
also have been a mother; I am no longer so,” she 
added, in a faltering tone, “ and your son will have all 
my care.” 

“ But will ye lead him in the path which his parents 
have trodden?” demanded the Quaker. “Can ye 
teach him the enlightened faith which his father has 
died for, and for which I, even I, am soon to become 
an unworthy martyr ? The boy has been baptized in 
blood; will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon 
his forehead ? ” 

“ I will not deceive you,” answered Dorothy. “ If 
your child become our child, we must breed him up in 
the instruction which Heaven has imparted to us; we 
must pray for him the prayers of our own faith; we 
must do towards him according to the dictates of our 
own consciences, and not of yours. Were we to act 
otherwise, we should abuse your trust, even in comply¬ 
ing with your wishes.” 

The mother looked down upon her boy with a 
troubled countenance, and then turned her eyes up¬ 
ward to heaven. She seemed to pray internally, and 
the contention of her soul was evident. 

“ Friend,” she said at length to Dorothy, “I doubt 
not that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at 
thy hands. Nay, I will believe that even thy imper¬ 
fect lights may guide him to a better world, for surely 
thou art on the path thither. But thou hast spoken 
of a husband. Doth he stand here among this mul¬ 
titude of people? Let him come forth, for I must 
know to whom I commit this most precious trust.” 

She turned her face upon the male auditors, and 
after a momentary delay, Tobias Pearson came forth 


106 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


from among them. The Quaker saw the dress which 
marked his military rank, and shook her head ; but 
then she noted the hesitating air, the eyes that strug¬ 
gled with her own, and were vanquished; the color 
that went and came, and could find no resting-place. 
As she gazed, an unmirthful smile spread over her 
features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some 
desolate spot. Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length 
she spake. 

“I hear it, I hear it. The voice speaketh within 
me and saith, ‘Leave thy child, Catharine, for his 
place is here, and go hence, for I have other work for 
thee. Break the bonds of natural affection, martyr 
thy love, and know that in all these things eternal 
wisdom hath its ends.’ I go, friends; I go. Take ye 
my boy, my precious jewel. I go hence, trusting that 
all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands 
there is a labor in the vineyard.” 

She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at 
first struggled and clung to his mother, with sobs and 
tears, but remained passive when she had kissed his 
cheek and arisen from the ground. Having held her 
hands over his head in mental prayer, she was ready 
to depart. 

“ Farewell, friends in mine extremity,” she said to 
Pearson and his wife; “ the good deed ye have done 
me is a treasure laid up in heaven, to be returned a 
thousand-fold hereafter. And farewell ye, mine ene¬ 
mies, to whom it is not permitted to harm so much as 
a hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for 
a moment. The day is coming when ye shall call 
upon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted* 
and I will rise up and answer.” 

She turned her steps towards the door, and the men, 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


107 


who had stationed themselves to guard it, withdrew, 
and suffered her to pass. A general sentiment of pity 
overcame the virulence of religious hatred. Sancti¬ 
fied by her love and her affliction, she went forth, and 
all the people gazed after her till she had journeyed 
up the hill, and was lost behind its brow. She went, 
the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to renew the 
wanderings of past years. For her voice had been 
already heard in many lands of Christendom; and she 
had pined in the cells of a Catholic Inquisition before 
she felt the lash and lay in the dungeons of the Puri¬ 
tans. Her mission had extended also to the followers 
of the Prophet, and from them she had received the 
courtesy and kindness which all the contending sects 
of our purer religion united to deny her. Her hus¬ 
band and herself had resided many months in Turkey, 
where even the Sultan’s countenance was gracious to 
them; in that pagan land, too, was Ilbrahim’s birth¬ 
place, and his oriental name was a mark of gratitude 
for the good deeds of an unbeliever. 

• •«•••••• 

When Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all 
the rights over Ilbrahim that could be delegated, their 
affection for him became like the memory of their 
native land, or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece 
of the immovable furniture of their hearts. The boy, 
also, after a week or two of mental disquiet, began to 
gratify his protectors by many inadvertent proofs that 
he considered them as parents, and their house as 
home. Before the winter snows were melted, the per¬ 
secuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote and 
heathen country, seemed native in the New England 
cottage, and inseparable from the warmth and security 
of its hearth. Under the influence of kind treatment, 


108 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and in the consciousness that he was loved, Ilbrahim’s 
demeanor lost a premature manliness, which had re¬ 
sulted from his earlier situation ; he became more 
childlike, and his natural character displayed itself 
with freedom. It was in many respects a beautiful 
one, yet the disordered imaginations of both his father 
and mother had perhaps propagated a certain un¬ 
healthiness in the mind of the boy. In his general 
state, Ilbrahim would derive enjoyment from the most 
trifling events, and from every object about him; he 
seemed to discover rich treasures of happiness, by a 
faculty analogous to that of the witch hazel, which 
points to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. 
His airy gayety, coming to him from a thousand 
sources, communicated itself to the family, and Ilbra¬ 
him was like a domesticated sunbeam, brightening 
moody countenances, and chasing away the gloom 
from the dark corners of the cottage. 

On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure 
is also that of pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the 
boy’s prevailing temper sometimes yielded to moments 
of deep depression. His sorrows could not always be 
followed up to their original source, but most fre¬ 
quently they appeared to flow, though Ilbrahim was 
young to be sad for such a cause, from wounded love. 
The flightiness of his mirth rendered him often guilty 
of offences against the decorum of a Puritan house¬ 
hold, and on these occasions he did not invariably 
escape rebuke. But the slightest word of real bitter¬ 
ness, which he was infallible in distinguishing from 
pretended anger, seemed to sink into his heart and 
poison all his enjoyments, till he became sensible that 
he was entirely forgiven. Of the malice, which gen¬ 
erally accompanies a superfluity of sensitiveness, libra* 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


109 


him was altogether destitute: when trodden upon, he 
would not turn; when wounded, he could but die. 
His mind was wanting in the stamina for self-support; 
it was a plant that would twine beautifully round 
something stronger than itself, but if repulsed, or torn 
away, it had no choice but to wither on the ground. 
Dorothy’s acuteness taught her that severity would 
crush the spirit of the child, and she nurtured him 
with the gentle care of one who handles a butterfly. 
Her husband manifested an equal affection, although 
it grew daily less productive of familiar caresses. 

The feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to 
the Quaker infant and his protectors, had not under¬ 
gone a favorable change, in spite of the momentary 
triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over 
their sympathies. The scorn and bitterness, of which 
he was the object, were very grievous to Ilbrahim, es¬ 
pecially when any circumstance made him sensible 
that the children, his equals in age, partook of the 
enmity of their parents. His tender and social nature 
had already overflowed in attachments to everything 
about him, and still there was a residue of unappro¬ 
priated love, which he yearned to bestow upon the 
little ones who were taught to hate him. As the warm 
days of spring came on, Ilbrahim was accustomed to 
remain for hours, silent and inactive, within hearing 
of the children’s voices at their play; yet, with his 
usual delicacy of feeling, he avoided their notice, and 
would flee and hide himself from the smallest individ¬ 
ual among them. Chance, however, at length seemed 
to open a medium of communication between his heart 
and theirs ; it was by means of a boy about two years 
older than Ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall from 
a tree in the vicinity of Pearson’s habitation. As the 


110 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


sufferer’s own home was at some distance, Dorothy 
willingly received him under her roof, and became his 
tender and careful nurse. 

Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much 
skill in physiognomy, and it would have deterred him, 
in other circumstances, from attempting to make a 
friend of this boy. The countenance of the latter im¬ 
mediately impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it 
required some examination to discover that the cause 
was a very slight distortion of the mouth, and the ir¬ 
regular, broken line, and near approach of the eye* 
brows. Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformi¬ 
ties, was an almost imperceptible twist of every joint, 
and the uneven prominence of the breast; forming a 
body, regular in its general outline, but faulty in al¬ 
most all its details. The disposition of the boy was 
sullen and reserved, and the village schoolmaster stig¬ 
matized him as obtuse in intellect; although, at a 
later period of life, he evinced ambition and very pe¬ 
culiar talents. But whatever might be his personal 
or moral irregularities. Ilbrahim’s heart seized upon, 
and clung to him, from the moment that he was 
brought wounded into the cottage ; the child of perse¬ 
cution seemed to compare his own fate with that of 
the sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of 
misfortune had created a sort of relationship between 
them. Food, rest, and the fresh air, for which he lan¬ 
guished, were neglected; he nestled continually by the 
bedside of the little stranger, and, with a fond jeal¬ 
ousy, endeavored to be the mediimi of all the cares 
that were bestowed upon him. As the boy became 
convalescent, Ilbrahim contrived games suitable to 
his situation, or amused him by a faculty which he 
had perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


Ill 


birthplace. It was that of reciting imaginary adven¬ 
tures, on the spur of the moment, and apparently in 
inexhaustible succession. His tales were of course 
monstrous, disjointed, and without aim ; but they were 
curious on accomit of a vein of human tenderness 
which ran through them all, and was like a sweet, 
familiar face, encountered in the midst of wild and 
unearthly scenery. The auditor paid much attention 
to these romances, and sometimes interrupted them by 
brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying shrewd¬ 
ness above his years, mingled with a moral obliquity 
which grated very harshly against Ilbrahim’s instinc¬ 
tive rectitude. Nothing, however, could arrest the 
progress of the latter’s affection, and there were many 
proofs that it met with a response from the dark and 
stubborn nature on which it was lavished. The boy’s 
parents at length removed him, to complete his cure 
imder their own roof. 

Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his de¬ 
parture ; but he made anxious and continual inquiries 
respecting him, and informed himself of the day when 
he was to reappear among his playmates. On a pleas¬ 
ant stmimer afternoon, the children of the neighbor¬ 
hood had assembled in the little forest-crowned amphi¬ 
theatre behind the meeting-house, and the recovering 
invalid was there, leaning on a staff. The glee of a 
score of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy 
voices, which danced among the trees like sunshine 
become audible ; the grown men of this weary world, 
as they journeyed by the spot, marvelled why life, be¬ 
ginning in such brightness, should proceed in gloom; 
and their hearts, or their imaginations, answered them 
and said, that the bliss of childhood gushes from its 
innocence. But it happened that an unexpected addi- 


112 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


tion was made to the heavenly little band. It was 
Ilbrahim, who came towards the children with a look 
of sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual face, as 
if, having manifested his love to one of them, he had 
no longer to fear a repulse from their society. A 
hush came over their mirth the moment they beheld 
him, and they stood whispering to each other while he 
drew nigh ; but, all at once, the devil of their fathers 
entered into the unbreeched fanatics, and sending up 
a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon the poor Quaker 
child. In an instant, he was the centre of a brood of 
baby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted him 
with stones, and displayed an instinct of destruction 
far more loathsome than the bloodthirstiness of man¬ 
hood. 

The invalid, in the meanwhile, stood apart from the 
tumult, crying out with a loud voice, “Fear not, Ilbra¬ 
him, come hither and take my hand ; ” and his un¬ 
happy friend endeavored to obey him. After watch¬ 
ing the victim’s struggling approach with a calm smile 
and unabashed eye, the foul-hearted little villain lifted 
his staff and struck Ilbrahim on the mouth, so forci¬ 
bly that the blood issued in a stream. The poor child’s 
arms had been raised to guard his head from the storm 
of blows; but now he dropped them at once. His per¬ 
secutors beat him down, trampled upon him, dragged 
him by his long, fair locks, and Ilbrahim was on the 
point of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever en¬ 
tered bleeding into heaven. The uproar, however, 
attracted the notice of a few neighbors, who put them¬ 
selves to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and 
of conveying him to Pearson’s door. 

Ilbrahim’s bodily harm was severe, but long and 
careful nursing accomplished his recovery; the injury 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


113 


done to his sensitive spirit was more serious, though 
not so visible. Its signs were principally of a negative 
character, and to be discovered only by those who had 
previously known him. His gait was thenceforth slow, 
even, and unvaried by the sudden bursts of sprightlier 
motion, which had once corresponded to his overflow¬ 
ing gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its 
former play of expression, the dance of sunshine re¬ 
flected from moving water, was destroyed by the cloud 
over his existence; his notice was attracted in a far 
less degree by passing events, and he appeared to find 
greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to 
him than at a happier period. A stranger, founding 
his judgment upon these circumstances, would have 
said that the dulness of the child’s intellect widely 
contradicted the promise of his features; but the secret 
was in the direction of Ilbrahim’s thoughts, which 
were brooding within him when they should naturally 
have been wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy 
to revive his former sportiveness was the single occa¬ 
sion on which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent 
display of grief; he burst into passionate weeping, and 
ran and hid himself, for his heart had become so mis¬ 
erably sore that even the hand of kindness tortured 
it like fire. Sometimes, at night and probably in his 
dreams, he was heard to cry “ Mother ! Mother ! ” as 
if her place, which a stranger had supplied while II- 
brahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his ex¬ 
treme affliction. Perhaps, among the many life-weary 
wretches then upon the earth, there was not one who 
combined innocence and misery like this poor, broken¬ 
hearted infant, so soon the victim of his own heavenly 
nature. 

While this melancholy change had taken place in 

VOL. i. 8 


114 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Llbrahim, one of an earlier origin and of different 
character had come to its perfection in his adopted 
father. The incident with which this tale commences 
found Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet men¬ 
tally disquieted, and longing for a more fervid faith 
than he possessed. The first effect of his kindness to 
llbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, and incip¬ 
ient love for the child’s whole sect; but joined to this, 
and resulting perhaps from self-suspicion, was a proud 
and ostentatious contempt of all their tenets and prac¬ 
tical extravagances. In the course of much thought, 
however, for the subject struggled irresistibly into his 
mind, the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less 
evident, and the points which had particularly offended 
his reason assumed another aspect, or vanished entirely 
away. The work within him appeared to go on even 
while he slept, and that which had been a doubt, when 
he lay down to rest, would often hold the place of 
a truth, confirmed by some forgotten demonstration, 
when he recalled his thoughts in the morning. But 
while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusi¬ 
asts, his contempt, in nowise decreasing towards them, 
grew very fierce against himself; he imagined, also, 
that every face of his acquaintance wore a sneer, and 
that every word addressed to him was a gibe. Such 
was his state of mind at the period of Ilbrahim’s mis¬ 
fortune ; and the emotions consequent upon that event 
completed the change, of which the child had been the 
original instrument. 

In the mean time, neither the fierceness of the per¬ 
secutors, nor the infatuation of their victims, had de¬ 
creased. The dungeons were never empty; the streets 
of almost every village echoed daily with the lash; tlio 
life of a woman, whose mild and Christian spirit nq 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


115 


cruelty could embitter, had been sacrificed; and more 
innocent blood was yet to pollute the hands that were 
so often raised in prayer. Early after the Kestoration, 
the English Quakers represented to Charles II. that 
a u vein of blood was open in his dominions; ” but 
though the displeasure of the voluptuous king was 
roused, his interference was not prompt. And now 
the tale must stride forward over many months, leav¬ 
ing Pearson to encounter ignominy and misfortune; 
his wife to a firm endurance of a thousand sorrows; 
poor Ilbrahim to pine and droop like a cankered rose¬ 
bud ; his mother to wander on a mistaken errand, neg¬ 
lectful of the holiest trust which can be committed to 
a woman. 

• •••••••• 

A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened 
over Pearson’s habitation, and there were no cheerful 
faces to drive the gloom from his broad hearth. The 
fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy 
light, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow, 
lay ready to be cast upon the embers. But the apart¬ 
ment was saddened in its aspect by the absence of 
much of the homely wealth which had once adorned 
it; for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own 
neglect of temporal affairs, had greatly impoverished 
the owner. And with the furniture of peace, the im¬ 
plements of war had likewise 'disappeared ; the sword 
was broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away for¬ 
ever ; the soldier had done with battles, and might not 
lift so much as his naked hand to guard his head. 
But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which 
it rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the 
persecuted sect sought comfort from its pages. 

He who listened, while the other read, was the 


116 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


master of the house, now emaciated in form, and al¬ 
tered as to the expression and healthiness of his coun¬ 
tenance ; for his mind had dwelt too long among 
visionary thoughts, and his body had been worn by 
imprisonment and stripes. The hale and weather¬ 
beaten old man who sat beside him had sustained less 
injury from a far longer course of the same mode of 
life. In person he was tall and dignified, and, which 
alone would have made him hateful to the Puritans, 
his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed 
hat, and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read 
the sacred page the snow drifted against the windows, 
or eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast 
kept laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped 
fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind 
struck the hill at a certain angle, and swept down by 
the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the 
most doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the 
Past were speaking, as if the Dead had contributed 
each a whisper, as if the Desolation of Ages were 
breathed in that one lamenting sound. 

The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining 
however his hand between the pages which he had 
been reading, while he looked steadfastly at Pearson. 
The attitude and features of the latter might have 
indicated the endurance of bodily pain ; he leaned 
his forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed, 
and his frame was tremulous at intervals with a ner¬ 
vous agitation. 

“ Friend Tobias,” inquired the old man, compas¬ 
sionately, “hast thou found no comfort in these many 
blessed passages of Scripture?” 

“Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar 
!>ff and indistinct,” replied Pearson without lifting his 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


117 


eyes. “Yea, and when I have hearkened carefully 
the words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended for 
another and a lesser grief than mine. Kemove the 
book,” he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness. “ I 
have no part in its consolations, and they do but fret 
my sorrow the more.” 

“Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never 
known the light,” said the elder Quaker earnestly, 
but with mildness. “Art thou he that wouldst be 
content to give all, and endure all, for conscience’ 
sake; desiring even peculiar trials, that thy faith 
might be purified and thy heart weaned from worldly 
desires? And wilt thou sink beneath an affliction 
which happens alike to them that have their portion 
here below, and to them that lay up treasure in 
heaven ? Faint not, for thy burden is yet light.” 

“It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!” ex¬ 
claimed Pearson, with the impatience of a variable 
spirit. “ From my youth upward I have been a man 
marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day 
after day, I have endured sorrows such as others 
know not in their lifetime. And now I speak not of 
the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to 
ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to 
danger, want, and nakedness. All this I could have 
borne, and counted myself blessed. But when my 
heart was desolate with many losses I fixed it upon the 
child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than 
all my buried ones; and now he too must die as if my 
iove were poison. Verily, I am an accursed man, and 
I will lay me down in the dust and lift up my head 
Ho more.” 

“ Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to re¬ 
buke thee; for I also have had my hours of darkness, 


118 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


wherein I have murmured against the cross,” said the 
old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of 
distracting his companion’s thoughts from his own sor¬ 
rows. “ Even of late was the light obscured within 
me, when the men of blood had banished me on pain 
of death, and the constables led me onward from vil¬ 
lage to village towards the wilderness. A strong and 
cruel hand was wielding the knotted cords; they sunk 
deep into the flesh, and thou mightst have tracked 
every reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood that 
followed. As we went on”— 

“Have I not borne all this; and have I mur¬ 
mured?” interrupted Pearson impatiently. 

“ Nay, friend, but hear me,” continued the other. 
“ As we journeyed on, night darkened on our path, so 
that no man could see the rage of the persecutors or 
the constancy of my endurance, though Heaven for¬ 
bid that I should glory therein. The lights began to 
glimmer in the cottage windows, and I could discern 
the inmates as they gathered in comfort and security, 
every man with his wife and children by their own 
evening hearth. At length we came to a tract of fer¬ 
tile land ; in the dim light, the forest was not visible 
around it; and behold! there was a straw-thatched 
dwelling, which bore the very aspect of my home, far 
over the wild ocean, far in our own England. Then 
came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, remembrances 
that were like death to my soul. The happiness of my 
early days was painted to me; the disquiet of my man¬ 
hood, the altered faith of my declining years. I re¬ 
membered how I had been moved to go forth a wan¬ 
derer when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of 
my flock, lay on her dying bed, and ” — 

“ Couldst thou obey the command at such a mo* 
ment ? ” exclaimed Pearson, shuddering. 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


119 


“Yea, yea,” replied the old man hurriedly. U I was 
kneeling by her bedside when the voice spoke loud 
Vvithin me ; but immediately I rose, and took my staff, 
and gat me gone. Oh! that it were permitted me to 
forget her woful look when 1 thus withdrew my arm, 
and left her journeying through the dark valley alone! 
for her soul was faint, and she had leaned upon my 
prayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed 
by the thought that I had been an erring Christian 
and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her 
pale, dying features, seemed to stand by me and whis¬ 
per, ‘Father, you are deceived; go home and shelter 
your gray head.’ O Thou, to whom I have looked in 
my farthest wanderings,” continued the Quaker, rais¬ 
ing his agitated eyes to heaven, “inflict not upon the 
bloodiest of our persecutors the unmitigated agony of 
my soul, when I believed that all I had done and suf¬ 
fered for Thee was at the instigation of a mocking 
fiend ! But I yielded not; I knelt down and wrestled 
with the tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely 
into the flesh. My prayer was heard, and I went on 
in peace and joy towards the wilderness.” 

The old man, though his fanaticism had generally 
all the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while 
reciting this tale ; and his unwonted emotion seemed 
to rebuke and keep down that of his companion. 
They sat in silence, with their faces to the fire, imag¬ 
ining, perhaps, in its red embers new scenes of perse¬ 
cution yet to be encoimtered. The snow still drifted 
hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze 
of the logs had gradually sunk, came down the spar 
cious chimney and hissed upon the hearth. A cautious 
footstep might now and then be heard in a neighbor- 
ing apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes 


120 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


of both Quakers to the door which led thither. When 
a fierce and riotous gust of wind had led his thoughts, 
by a natural association, to homeless travellers on such 
a night, Pearson resumed the conversation. 

“ I have well-nigh sunk under my own share of this 
trial, 5 ’ observed he, sighing heavily; “yet I would 
that it might be doubled to me, if so the child’s 
mother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep 
and many, but this will be the sorest of all.” 

“ Fear not for Catharine,” replied the old Quaker, 
“ for I know that valiant woman, and have seen how 
she can bear the cross. A mother’s heart, indeed, is 
strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with 
her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks 
that her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice. 
The boy hath done his work, and she will feel that 
he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her. 
Blessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering 
can enter into peace ! ” 

The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a 
portentous sound ; it was a quick and heavy knocking 
at the outer door. Pearson’s wan countenance grew 
paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him 
what to dread ; the old man, on the other hand, stood 
up erect, and his glance was firm as that of the tried 
soldier who awaits his enemy. 

“ The men of blood have come to seek me,” he ob¬ 
served with calmness. “ They have heard how I was 
moved to return from banishment; and now am I to 
be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end 
I have long looked for. I will open unto them, lest 
they say, ‘ Lo, he feareth ! ’ ” 

“ Nay, I will present myself before them,” said 
Pearson, with recovered fortitude. “ It may be that 


THE GENTLE BOY. ' 121 

they seek me alone, and know not that thou abidest 
with me.” 

“ Let us go boldly, both one and the other,” rejoined 
his companion. “ It is not fitting that thou or I should 
shrink.” 

They therefore proceeded through the entry to the 
door, which they opened, bidding the applicant “ Come 
in, in God’s name ! ” A furious blast of wind drove 
the storm into their faces, and extinguished the lamp; 
they had barely time to discern a figure, so white from 
head to foot with the drifted snow that it seemed like 
Winter’s self, come in human shape, to seek refuge 
from its own desolation. 

“ Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it 
may,” said Pearson. “It must needs be pressing, 
since thou comest on such a bitter night.” 

“ Peace be with this household,” said the stranger, 
when they stood on the floor of the inner apartment. 

Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slum¬ 
bering embers of the fire till they sent up a clear and 
lofty blaze; it was a female voice that had spoken ; it 
was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry, in 
that comfortable light. 

“ Catharine, blessed woman! ” exclaimed the old 
man, “ art thou come to this darkened land again ? art 
thou come to bear a valiant testimony as in former 
years ? The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, 
and from the dungeon hast thou come forth triumph¬ 
ant ; but strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, Cath¬ 
arine, for Heaven will prove thee yet this once, ere 
thou go to thy reward.” 

“ Rejoice, friends! ” she replied. “ Thou who hast 
/ong been of our people, and thou whom a little child 
hath led to us, rejoice ! Lo ! I come, the messenger 


122 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is overpast. 
The heart of the king, even Charles, hath been moved 
in gentleness towards us, and he hath sent forth his 
letters to stay the hands of the men of blood. A ship’s 
company of our friends hath arrived at yonder town, 
and I also sailed joyfully among them.” 

As Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about 
the room, in search of him for whose sake security 
was dear to her. Pearson made a silent appeal to the 
old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful 
task assigned him. 

“ Sister,” he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm 
tone, “ thou tellest us of His love, manifested in tem¬ 
poral good; and now must we speak to thee of that 
selfsame love, displayed in chastenings. Hitherto, 
Catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a 
darksome and difficult path, and leading an infant by 
the hand; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward 
continually, but still the cares of that little child have 
drawn thine eyes and thy affections to the earth. 
Sister! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps, 
shall impede thine own no more.” 

But the unhappy mother was not thus to be con¬ 
soled ; she shook like a leaf, she turned white as the 
very snow that hung drifted into her hair. The firm 
old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping 
his eye upon hers, as if to repress any outbreak of 
passion. 

“ I am a woman, I am but a woman ; will He try 
me above my strength?” said Catharine very quickly, 
and almost in a whisper. I have been wounded 
sore: I have suffered much; many things in the body; 
many in the mind; crucified in myself, and in them 
that were dearest to me. Surely,” added she, with a 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


123 


long shudder, “ He hath spared me in this one thing.” 
She broke forth with sudden and irrepressible vio¬ 
lence. “Tell me, man of cold heart, what has God 
done to me ? Hath He cast me down, never to rise 
again ? Hath He crushed my very heart in his hand ? 
And thou, to whom I committed my child, how hast 
thou fulfilled thy trust ? Give me back the boy, well, 
sound, alive, alive; or earth and Heaven shall avenge 
me! ” 

The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by 
the faint, the very faint, voice of a child. 

On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to 
his aged guest, and to Dorothy, that Ilbrahim’s brief 
and troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. The 
two former would willingly have remained by him, to 
make use of the prayers and pious discourses which 
they deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if 
they be impotent as to the departing traveller’s recep¬ 
tion in the world whither he goes, may at least sus¬ 
tain him in bidding adieu to earth. But though Ilbra- 
him uttered no complaint, he was disturbed by the 
faces that looked upon him ; so that Dorothy’s entrea¬ 
ties, and their own conviction that the child’s feet 
might tread heaven’s pavement and not soil it, had 
induced the two Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim then 
closed his eyes and grew calm, and, except for now 
and then a kind and low word to his nurse, might 
have been thought to slumber. As nightfall came 
on, however, and the storm began to rise, something 
seemed to trouble the repose of the boy’s mind, and 
to render his sense of hearing active and acute. If a 
passing wind lingered to shake the casement, he strove 
to turn his head towards it; if the door jarred to and 
fro upon its hinges, he looked long and anxiously 


124 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


thitherward ; if the heavy voice of the old man, as he 
read the Scriptures, rose but a little higher, the child 
almost held his dying breath to listen ; if a snow-drift 
swept by the cottage, with a sound like the trailing 
of a garment, Ilbrahim seemed to watch that some 
visitant should enter. 

But, after a little time, he relinquished whatever 
secret hope had agitated him, and with one low, com¬ 
plaining whisper, turned his cheek upon the pillow. 
He then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness, 
and besought her to draw near him; she did so, and 
Ilbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it 
with a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself that he 
retained it. At intervals, and without disturbing the 
repose of his countenance, a very faint trembling 
passed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but 
somewhat cool wind had breathed upon him, and 
made him shiver. As the boy thus led her by the 
hand, in his quiet progress over the borders of eter¬ 
nity, Dorothy almost imagined that she could discern 
the near, though dim, delightfulness of the home he 
was about to reach; she would not have enticed the 
little wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself 
that she must leave him and return. But just when 
Ilbrahim’s feet were pressing on the soil of Paradise 
he heard a voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, 
few paces of the weary path which he had travelled. 

' As Dorothy looked upon his features, she perceived 
that their placid expression was again disturbed; her 
own thoughts had been so wrapped in him, that all 
sounds of the storm, and of human speech, were lost 
to her; but when Catharine’s shriek pierced through 
the room, the boy strove to raise himself. 

“ Friend, she is come ! Open unto her! ” cried ha 


THE GENTLE BOY. 


125 


In a moment his mother was kneeling by the bed¬ 
side ; she drew Ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled 
there, with no violence of joy, but contentedly, as if 
he were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her 
face, and reading its agony, said, with feeble earnest¬ 
ness, “ Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now.” 
And with these words the gentle boy was dead. 
••••••••• 

The king’s mandate to stay the New England per¬ 
secutors was effectual in preventing further martyr¬ 
doms ; but the colonial authorities, trusting in the 
remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the sup¬ 
posed instability of the royal government, shortly re¬ 
newed their severities in all other respects. Catha¬ 
rine’s fanaticism had become wilder by the sundering 
of all human ties; and wherever a scourge was lifted 
there was she to receive the blow; and whenever a 
dungeon was unbarred thither she came, to cast her¬ 
self upon the floor. But in process of time a more 
Christian spirit — a spirit of forbearance, though not 
of cordiality or approbation — began to pervade the 
land in regard to the persecuted sect. And then, 
when the rigid old Pilgrims eyed her rather in pity 
than in wrath; when the matrons fed her with the 
fragments of their children’s food, and offered her a 
lodging on a hard and lowly bed; when no little crowd 
of schoolboys left their sports to cast stones after the 
roving enthusiast; then did Catharine return to Pear¬ 
son’s dwelling and made that her home. 

As if Ilbrahim’s sweetness yet lingered round his 
ashes; as if his gentle spirit came down from heaven 
to teach his parent a true religion, her fierce and vin¬ 
dictive nature was softened by the same griefs which 
had once irritated it. When the course of years had 


126 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


made the features of the unobtrusive mourner familiar 
in the settlement, she became a subject of not deep, 
but general, interest; a being on whom the otherwise 
superfluous sympathies of all might he bestowed. 
Every one spoke of her with that degree of pity 
which it is pleasant to experience; every one was 
ready to do her the little kindnesses which are not 
costly, yet manifest good will; and when at last she 
died, a long train of her once bitter persecutors fol¬ 
lowed her, with decent sadness and tears that were 
not painful, to her place by Ilbrahim’s green and 
sunken grave. 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE. 


A young fellow, a tobacco pedlar by trade, was on 
his way from Morristown, where he had dealt largely 
with the Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the 
village of Parker’s Falls, on Salmon River. He had 
a neat little cart, painted green, with a box of cigars 
depicted on each side panel, and an Indian chief, 
holding a pipe and a golden tobacco stalk, on the 
rear. The pedlar drove a smart little mare, and was 
a young man of excellent character, keen at a bargain, 
but none the worse liked by the Yankees; who, as I 
have heard them say, would rather be shaved with a 
sharp razor than a dull one. Especially was he be¬ 
loved by the pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose 
favor he used to court by presents of the best smok¬ 
ing tobacco in his stock; knowing well that the coun¬ 
try lasses of New England are generally great per¬ 
formers on pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in the 
course of my story, the pedlar was inquisitive, and 
something of a tattler, always itching to hear the 
news and anxious to tell it again. 

After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco 
pedlar, whose name was Dominicus Pike, had trav¬ 
elled seven miles through a solitary piece of woods, 
without speaking a word to anybody but himself and 
his little gray mare. It being nearly seven o’clock, he 
was as eager to hold a morning gossip as a city shop¬ 
keeper to read the morning paper. An opportunity 
seemed at hand when, after lighting a cigar with a 


128 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


sun-glass, he looked up, and perceived a man coming 
over the brow of the hill, at the foot of which the ped¬ 
lar had stopped his green cart. Dominicus watched 
him as he descended, and noticed that he carried a 
bundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and 
travelled with a weary, yet determined pace. He did 
not look as if he had started in the freshness of the 
morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do 
the same all day. 

“Good morning, mister,” said Dominicus, when 
within speaking distance. “You go a pretty good 
jog. What’s the latest news at Parker’s Falls? ” 

The man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over 
his eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did 
not come from Parker’s Falls, which, as being the 
limit of his own day’s journey, the pedlar had natu¬ 
rally mentioned in his inquiry. 

“ Well then,” rejoined Dominicus Pike, “let’s have 
the latest news where you did come from. I’m not 
particular about Parker’s Falls. Any place will an¬ 
swer.” 

Being thus importuned, the traveller — who was as 
ill looking a fellow as one would desire to meet in a 
solitary piece of woods — appeared to hesitate a little, 
as if he was either searching his memory for news, or 
weighing the expediency of telling it. At last, mount¬ 
ing on the step of the cart, he whispered in the ear of 
Dominicus, though he might have shouted aloud and 
no other mortal would have heard him. 

“ I do remember one little trifle of news,” said he. 
“ Old Mr. Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered 
in his orchard, at eight o’clock last night, by an Irish¬ 
man and a nigger. They strung him up to the b#anch 
of a St. Michael’s pear-tree, where nobody would find 
him till the morning.” 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 129 


As soon as this horrible intelligence was commu¬ 
nicated, the stranger betook himself to his journey 
again, with more speed than ever, not even turning 
his head when Dominicus invited him to smoke a 
Spanish cigar and relate all the particulars. The ped¬ 
lar whistled to his mare and went up the hill, ponder¬ 
ing on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham whom he 
had known in the way of trade, having sold him many 
a bunch of long nines, and a great deal of pigtail, 
lady’s twist, and fig tobacco. He was rather astonished 
at the rapidity with which the news had spread. Kim- 
ballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; 
the murder had been perpetrated only at eight o’clock 
the preceding night; yet Dominicus had heard of it 
at seven in the morning, when, in all probability, poor 
Mr. Higginbotham’s own family had but just discov¬ 
ered his corpse, hanging on the St. Michael’s pear- 
tree. The stranger on foot must have worn seven- 
league boots to travel at such a rate. 

“ Ill news flies fast, they say,” thought Dominicus 
Pike ; “ but this beats railroads. The fellow ought to 
be hired to go express with the President’s Message.” 

The difficulty was solved by supposing that the nar¬ 
rator had made a mistake of one day in the date of 
the occurrence ; so that our friend did not hesitate to 
introduce the story at every tavern and country store 
along the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish 
wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. 
He found himself invariably the first bearer of the in¬ 
telligence, and was so pestered with questions that he 
could not avoid filling up the outline, till it became 
quite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece 
of corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a 
trader; and a former clerk of his, to whom Dominicus 


VOL. I. 


130 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


related the facts, testified that the old gentleman was 
accustomed to return home through the orchard about 
nightfall, with the money and valuable papers of the 
store in his pocket. The clerk manifested but little 
grief at Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe, hinting, 
what the pedlar had discovered in his own dealings 
with him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as close as 
a vice. His property would descend to a pretty niece 
who was now keeping school in Kimballton. 

What with telling the news for the public good, and 
driving bargains for his own, Dominicus was so much 
delayed on the road that he chose to put up at a tav¬ 
ern, about five miles short of Parker’s Falls. After 
supper, lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated him. 
self in the bar-room, and went through the story ol 
the murder, which had grown so fast that it took him 
half an hour to tell. There were as many as twenty 
people in the room, nineteen of whom received it all 
for gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly farmer, 
who had arrived on horseback a short time before, and 
was now seated in a corner smoking his pipe. When 
the story was concluded, he rose up very deliberately, 
brought his chair right in front of Dominicus, and 
stared him full in the face, puffing out the vilest to¬ 
bacco smoke the pedlar had ever smelt. 

“ Will you make affidavit,” demanded he, in the 
tone of a country justice taking an examination, “ that 
old Squire Higginbotham of Kimballton was murdered 
in his orchard the night before last, and found hang¬ 
ing on his great pear-tree yesterday morning? ” 

“ I tell the story as I heard it, mister,” answered 
Dominicus, dropping his half-burnt cigar; “I don’t 
say that I saw the thing done. So I can’t take my 
oath that he was murdered exactly in that way.” 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 131 


“ But I can take mine,” said the farmer, “ that if 
Squire Higginbotham was murdered night before last, 
I drank a glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. 
Being a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store, 
as I was riding by, and treated me, and then asked me 
to do a little business for him on the road. He did n’t 
seem to know any more about his own murder than I 
did.” 

“ Why, then, it can’t be a fact! ” exclaimed Domini¬ 
ons Pike. 

“ I guess he’d have mentioned, if it was,” said the 
old farmer; and he removed his chair back to the 
corner, leaving Dominicus quite down in the mouth. 

Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higgin¬ 
botham ! The pedlar had no heart to mingle in the 
conversation any more, but comforted himself with a 
glass of gin and water, and went to bed where, all 
night long, he dreamed of hanging on the St. Michael’s 
pear-tree. To avoid the old farmer (whom he so de¬ 
tested that his suspension would have pleased him bet¬ 
ter than Mr. Higginbotham’s), Dominicus rose in the 
gray of the morning, put the little mare into the green 
cart, and trotted swiftly away towards Parker’s Falls. 
The fresh breeze, the dewy road, and the pleasant 
summer dawn, revived his spirits, and might have en¬ 
couraged him to repeat the old story had there been 
anybody awake to hear it. But he met neither ox 
team, light wagon chaise, horseman, nor foot traveller, 
till, just as he crossed Salmon River, a man came 
trudging down to the bridge with a bundle over his 
shoulder, on the end of a stick. 

“ Good morning, mister,” said the pedlar, reining 
in his mare. “ If you come from Kimballton or that 
neighborhood, may be you can tell me the real fact 


132 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


about this affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the 
old fellow actually murdered two or three nights ago, 
by an Irishman and a nigger ? ” 

Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to ob¬ 
serve, at first, that the stranger himself had a deep 
tinge of negro blood. On hearing this sudden ques¬ 
tion, the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its 
yellow hue becoming a ghastly white, while, shaking 
and stammering, he thus replied : — 

“No! no! There was no colored man ! It was 
an Irishman that hanged him last night, at eight 
o’clock. I came away at seven! His folks can’t 
have looked for him in the orchard yet.” 

Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he inter¬ 
rupted himself, and though he seemed weary enough 
before, continued his journey at a pace which would 
have kept the pedlar’s mare on a smart trot. Do¬ 
minicus stared after him in great perplexity. If the 
murder had not been committed till Tuesday night, 
who was the prophet that had foretold it, in all its 
circumstances, on Tuesday morning ? If Mr. Higgin¬ 
botham’s corpse were not yet discovered by his own 
family, how came the mulatto, at above thirty miles’ 
distance, to know that he was hanging in the orchard, 
especially as he had left Kimballton before the un¬ 
fortunate man was hanged at all ? These ambiguous 
circumstances, with the stranger’s surprise and terror, 
made Dominicus think of raising a hue and cry after 
him, as an accomplice in the murder ; since a murder, 
it seemed, had really been perpetrated. 

“ But let the poor devil go,” thought the pedlar. 
44 1 don’t want his black blood on my head ; and hang¬ 
ing the nigger would n’t unhang Mr. Higginbotham. 
Unhang the old gentleman ! It’s a sin, I know ; but 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 133 


L should hate to have him come to life a second time, 
and give me the lie ! ” 

With these meditations, Dominicus Pike drove into 
the street of Parker’s Falls, which, as everybody 
knows, is as thriving a village as three cotton factories 
and a slitting mill can make it. The machinery was 
not in motion, and but a few of the shop doors un¬ 
barred, when he alighted in the stable yard of the 
tavern, and made it his first business to order the mare 
four quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was 
to impart Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe to the 
hostler. He deemed it advisable, however, not to be 
too positive as to the date of the direful fact, and also 
to be uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an 
Irishman and a mulatto, or by the son of Erin alone. 
Neither did he profess to relate it on his own author¬ 
ity, or that of any one person ; but mentioned it as a 
report generally diffused. 

The story ran through the town like fire among 
girdled trees, and became so much the universal talk 
that nobody could tell whence it had originated. Mr. 
Higginbotham was as well known at Parker’s Falls 
as any citizen of the place, being part owner of the 
slitting mill, and a considerable stockholder in the 
cotton factories. The inhabitants felt their own pros¬ 
perity interested in his fate. Such was the excite¬ 
ment, that the Parker’s Falls Gazette anticipated its 
regular day of publication, and came out with half a 
form of blank paper and a column of double pica 
emphasized with capitals, and headed HORRID 
MURDER OF MR. HIGGINBOTHAM ! Among 
other dreadful details, the printed account described 
the mark of the cord round the dead man’s neck, and 
stated the number of thousand dollars of which he 


<34 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


had been robbed ; there was much pathos also about 
the affliction of his niece, who had gone from one 
fainting fit to another, ever since her uncle was found 
hanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree with his pock¬ 
ets inside out. The village poet likewise commemo¬ 
rated the young lady’s grief in seventeen stanzas of a 
ballad. The selectmen held a meeting, and, in con¬ 
sideration of Mr. Higginbotham’s claims on the town, 
determined to issue handbills, offering a reward of 
five himdred dollars for the apprehension of his mur¬ 
derers, and the recovery of the stolen property. 

Meanwhile the whole population of Parker’s Falls, 
consisting of shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding¬ 
houses, factory girls, millmen, and school boys, rushed 
into the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity 
as more than compensated for the silence of the cotton 
machines, which refrained from their usual din out of 
respect to the deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham 
cared about posthumous renown, his untimely ghost 
would have exulted in this tumult. Our friend Do- 
minieus, in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended pre¬ 
cautions, and mounting on the town pump, announced 
himself as the bearer of the authentic intelligence 
which had caused so wonderful a sensation. He im¬ 
mediately became the great man of the moment, 
and had just begun a new edition of the narrative, 
with a voice like a field preacher, when the mail stage 
drove into the village street. It had travelled all 
night, and must have shifted horses at Kimballton, 
at three in the morning. 

“ Now we shall hear all the particulars,” shouted 
the crowd. 

The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern, 
followed by a thousand people; for if any man had 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE . 135 


been minding his own business till then, he now left 
it at sixes and sevens, to hear the news. The pedlar, 
foremost in the race, discovered two passengers, both 
of whom had been startled from a comfortable nap 
to find themselves in the centre of a mob. Every 
man assailing them with separate questions, all pro¬ 
pounded at once, the couple were struck speechless, 
though one was a lawyer and the other a young lady. 

“ Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us 
the particulars about old Mr. Higginbotham! ” bawled 
the mob. “ What is the coroner’s verdict ? Are the 
murderers apprehended ? Is Mr. Higginbotham’s 
niece come out of her fainting fits ? Mr. Higgin¬ 
botham ! Mr. Higginbotham !! ” 

The coachman said not a word, except to swear 
awfully at the hostler for not bringing him a fresh team 
of horses. The lawyer inside had generally his wits 
about him even when asleep ; the first thing he did, 
after learning the cause of the excitement, was to pro¬ 
duce a large, red pocket-book. Meantime Dominicus 
Pike, being an extremely polite young man, and also 
suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story 
as glibly as a lawyer’s, had handed the lady out of the 
coach. She was a fine, smart girl, now wide awake 
and bright as a button, and had such a sweet pretty 
mouth, that Dominicus would almost as lief have 
heard a love tale from it as a tale of murder. 

“ Gentlemen and ladies,” said the lawyer to the 
shopkeepers, the millmen, and the factory girls, “ I can 
assure you that some unaccountable mistake, or, more 
probably, a wilful falsehood, maliciously contrived to 
injure Mr. Higginbotham’s credit, has excited this 
singular uproar. We passed through Kimballton at 
three o’clock this morning, and most certainly should 




136 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


have been informed of the murder had any been per¬ 
petrated. But I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. 
Higginbotham’s own oral testimony, in the negative. 
Here is a note relating to a suit of his in the Con¬ 
necticut courts, which was delivered me from that 
gentleman himself. I find it dated at ten o’clock last 
evening.” 

So saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and signa¬ 
ture of the note, which irrefragably proved, either 
that this perverse Mr. Higginbotham was alive when 
he wrote it, or — as some deemed the more probable 
case, of two doubtful ones — that he was so absorbed 
in worldly business as to continue to transact it even 
after his death. But unexpected evidence was forth¬ 
coming. The young lady, after listening to the ped¬ 
lar’s explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth 
her gown and put her curls in order, and then ap¬ 
peared at the tavern door, making a modest signal to 
be heard. 

“ Good people,” said she, “ I am Mr. Higginbot¬ 
ham’s niece.” 

A wondering murmur passed through the crowd on 
beholding her so rosy and bright; that same unhappy 
niece, whom they had supposed, on the authority of 
the Parker’s Falls Gazette, to be lying at death’s 
door in a fainting fit. But some shrewd fellows had 
doubted, all along, whether a young lady would be 
quite so desperate at the hanging of a rich old uncle. 

“You see,” continued Miss Higginbotham, with a 
smile, “ that this strange story is quite unfounded as 
to myself; and I believe I may affirm it to be equally 
so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He 
has the kindness to give me a home in his house, 
though I contribute to my own support by teaching a 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 137 


school. I left Kimballton this morning to spend the 
vacation of commencement week with a friend, about 
five miles from Parker’s Falls. My generous uncle, 
when he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bed¬ 
side, and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay 
my stage fare, and another dollar for my extra ex¬ 
penses. He then laid his pocket-book under his pil¬ 
low, shook hands with me, and advised me to take 
some biscuit in my bag, instead of breakfasting on the 
road. I feel confident, therefore, that I left my be¬ 
loved relative alive, and trust that I shall find him so 
on my return.” 

The young lady courtesied at the close of her 
speech, which was so sensible and well worded, and 
delivered with such grace and propriety, that every¬ 
body thought her fit to be preceptress of the best 
academy in the State. But a stranger would have 
supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was an object of ab¬ 
horrence at Parker’s Falls, and that a thanksgiving 
had been proclaimed for his murder; so excessive 
was the wrath of the inhabitants on learning their 
mistake. The millmen resolved to bestow public hon¬ 
ors on Dominicus Pike, only hesitating whether to 
tar and feather him, ride him on a rail, or refresh him 
with an ablution at the town pump, on the top of 
which he had declared himself the bearer of the news. 
The selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, spoke of pros¬ 
ecuting him for a misdemeanor, in circulating un¬ 
founded reports, to the great disturbance of the peace 
of the Commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus, 
either from mob law or a court of justice, but an 
eloquent appeal made by the young lady in his behalf. 
Addressing a few words of heartfelt gratitude to his 
benefactress, he mounted the green cart and rode out 


138 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


of town, under a discharge of artillery from the school¬ 
boys, who found plenty of ammunition in the neigh¬ 
boring clay-pits and mud holes. As he turned his 
head to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. Higgin¬ 
botham’s niece, a ball, of the consistence of hasty 
pudding, hit him slap in the mouth, giving him a most 
grim aspect. His whole person was so bespattered 
with the like filthy missiles, that he had almost a mind 
to ride back, and supplicate for the threatened ablu¬ 
tion at the town pump; for, though not meant in 
kindness, it would now have been a deed of charity. 

However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, 
and the mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved 
opprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry. Being 
a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could 
he refrain from a hearty laugh at the uproar which 
his story had excited. The handbills of the select¬ 
men would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds 
in the State; the paragraph in the Parker’s Falls 
Gazette would be reprinted from Maine to Florida, 
and perhaps form an item in the London newspapers; 
and many a miser would tremble for his money bags 
and life, on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higgin¬ 
botham. The pedlar meditated with much fervor on 
the charms of the young schoolmistress, and swore 
that Daniel Webster never spoke nor looked so like 
an angel as Miss Higginbotham, while defending him 
from the wrathful populace at Parker’s Falls. 

Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, 
having all along determined to visit that place, though 
business had drawn him out of the most direct road 
from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the 
supposed murder, he continued to revolve the circum¬ 
stances in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect 



MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 139 


which the whole case assumed. Had nothing oc¬ 
curred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, 
it might now have been considered as a hoax; but the 
yellow man was evidently acquainted either with the 
report or the fact; and there was a mystery in his dis¬ 
mayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. 
When, to this singular combination of incidents, it 
was added that the rumor tallied exactly with Mr. 
Higginbotham’s character and habits of life; and 
that he had an orchard, and a St. Michael’s pear-tree, 
near which he always passed at nightfall: the circum¬ 
stantial evidence appeared so strong that Dominicus 
doubted whether the autograph produced by the law¬ 
yer, or even the niece’s direct testimony, ought to be 
equivalent. Making cautious inquiries along the road, 
the pedlar further learned that Mr. Higginbotham 
had in his service an Irishman of doubtful character, 
whom he had hired without a recommendation, on the 
score of economy. 

“ May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Dominicus 
Pike aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, “ if 
I ’ll believe old Higginbotham is unhanged till I see 
him with my own eyes, and hear it from his own 
mouth! And as he’s a real shaver, I ’ll have the min¬ 
ister or some other responsible man for an indorser.” 

It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house 
on Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile 
from the village of this name. His little mare was fast 
bringing him up with a man on horseback, who trotted 
through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded 
to the toll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village. 
Dominicus was acquainted with the tollman, and, while 
making change, the usual remarks on the weather 
passed between them. 


140 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“I suppose,” said the pedlar, throwing back his 
whiplash, to bring it down like a feather on the mare’s 
flank, 44 you have not seen anything of old Mr. Hig¬ 
ginbotham within a day or two ? ” 

44 Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer. 44 He passed 
the gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides 
now, if you can see him through the dusk. He’s been 
to Wooclfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff’s sale 
there. The old man generally shakes hands and has 
a little chat with me; but to-night, he nodded, — as 
if to say, 4 Charge my toll,’ and jogged on ; for wher¬ 
ever he goes, he must always be at home by eight 
o’clock.” 

“ So they tell me,” said Dominicus. 

44 I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the 
squire does,” continued the toll-gatherer. 44 Says I to 
myself, to-night, he’s more like a ghost or an old 
mummy than good flesh and blood.” 

The pedlar strained his eyes through the twilight, 
and could just discern the horseman now far ahead on 
the village road. He seemed to recognize the rear of 
Mr. Higginbotham ; but through the evening shadows, 
and amid the dust from the horse’s feet, the figure ap¬ 
peared dim and unsubstantial; as if the shape of the 
mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness 
and gray light. Dominicus shivered. 

44 Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other 
world, by way of the Kimballton turnpike,” thought 
he. 

He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about 
the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow, 
till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. 
On reaching this point, the pedlar no longer saw the 
man on horseback, but found himself at the head of 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE. 141 


the village street, not far from a number of stores and 
two taverns, clustered round the meeting-house steeple. 
On his left were a stone wall and a gate, the boundary 
of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an orchard, farther 
still, a mowing field, and last of all, a house. These 
were the premises of Mr. Higginbotham, whose dwell¬ 
ing stood beside the old highway, but had been left 
in the background by the Kimballton turnpike. Do¬ 
minions knew the place; and the little mare stopped 
short by instinct; for he was not conscious of tighten¬ 
ing the reins. 

“For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!” 
said he, trembling. “ I never shall be my own man 
again, till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging 
on the St. Michael’s pear-tree! ” 

He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round 
the gate post, and ran along the green path of the 
wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing behind. Just 
then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep 
stroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew 
faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of 
the orchard, he saw the fated pear-tree. One great 
branch stretched from the old contorted trunk across 
the path, and threw the darkest shadow on that one 
spot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the 
branch! 

The pedlar had never pretended to more courage 
than befits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could 
he account for his valor on this awful emergency. 
Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, pros¬ 
trated a sturdy Irishman with the butt end of his 
whip, and found — not indeed hanging on the St. Mi¬ 
chael’s pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, with a halter 
round his neck — the old, identical Mr. Higginbotham! 


142 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominicus tremulously, 
u you ’re an honest man, and I ’ll take your word for 
it. Have you been hanged or not ? ” 

If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words 
will explain the simple machinery by which this “ com¬ 
ing event” was made to “cast its shadow before.” 
Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of 
Mr. Higginbotham; two of them, successively, lost 
courage and fled, each delaying the crime one night 
by their disappearance; the third was in the act of 
perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the 
call of fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared 
in the person of Dominicus Pike. 

It only remains to say, that Mr. Higginbotham took 
the pedlar into high favor, sanctioned his addresses t< 
the pretty schoolmistress, and settled his whole prop 
erty on their children, allowing themselves the inter, 
est. In due time, the old gentleman capped the climax 
of his favors, by dying a Christian death, in bed, since 
which melancholy event Dominicus Pike has removed 
from Kimballton, and established a large tobacco 
manufactory in my native village. 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


Ding-dong ! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! 

The town crier has rung his bell at a distant corner, 
and little Annie stands on her father’s doorsteps, try¬ 
ing to hear what the man with the loud voice is talk¬ 
ing about. Let me listen too. Oh, he is telling the 
people that an elephant, and a lion, and a royal tiger, 
and a horse with horns, and other strange beasts from 
foreign countries, have come to town, and will receive 
all visitors who choose to wait upon them. Perhaps 
little Annie would like to go. Yes ; and I can see 
that the pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant 
street, with the green trees flinging their shade across 
the quiet sunshine, and the pavements and the side¬ 
walks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept 
them with her broom. She feels that impulse to go 
strolling away — that longing after the mystery of the 
great world—which many children feel, and which I 
felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take a ram¬ 
ble with me. See! I do but hold out my hand, and, 
like some bright bird in the sunny air, with her blue 
silk frock fluttering upwards from her white pantalets, 
she comes bounding on tiptoe across the street. 

Smooth back your brown curls, Annie; and let me 
tie on your bonnet, and we will set forth ! What a 
strange couple to go on their rambles together! One 
walks in black attire, with a measured step, and a 
heavy brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down; while 
the gay little girl trips lightly along, as if she were 


144 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


forced to keep hold of my hand, lest her feet should 
dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy 
between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is be¬ 
cause I have a smile that children love; and, on the 
other hand, there are few grown ladies that could 
entice me from the side of little Annie ; for I delight 
to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a 
sinless child. So, come, Annie; but if I moralize as 
we go, do not listen to me; only look about you, and 
be merry! 

Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two 
horses, and stage-coaches with four, thundering to 
meet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a 
slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from the 
wharves, and here are rattling gigs, which perhaps will 
be smashed to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, 
also, comes a man trundling a wheelbarrow along the 
pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a tu¬ 
mult ? No; she does not even shrink closer to my 
side, but passes on with fearless confidence, a happy 
child amidst a great throng of grown people, who pay 
the same reverence to her infancy that they would to 
extreme old age. Nobody jostles her; all turn aside 
to make way for little Annie; and what is most sin¬ 
gular, she appears conscious of her claim to such re¬ 
spect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure! A street 
musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder 
church, and pours forth his strains to the busy town, 
a melody that has gone astray among the tramp of 
footsteps, the buzz of voices, and the war of passing 
wheels. Who heeds the poor organ grinder? None 
but myself and little Annie, whose feet begin to move 
in unison with the lively tune, as if she were loath 
that music should be wasted without a dance. But 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


145 


where would Annie find a partner? Some have the 
gout in their toes, or the rheumatism in their joints; 
some are stiff with age ; some feeble with disease; 
some are so lean that their bones would rattle, and 
others of such ponderous size that their agility would 
crack the flagstones; but many, many have leaden 
feet, because their hearts are far heavier than lead. 
It is a sad thought that I have chanced upon. What 
a company of dancers should we be! For I, too, am 
a gentleman of sober footsteps, and therefore, little 
Annie, let us walk sedately on. 

It is a question with me, whether this giddy child 
or my sage self have most pleasure in looking at the 
shop windows. We love the silks of sunny hue, that 
glow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry 
goods’ men ; we are pleasantly dazzled by the bur¬ 
nished silver and the chased gold, the rings of wed¬ 
lock and the costly love ornaments, glistening at the 
window of the jeweller ; but Annie, more than I, seeks 
for a glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty look¬ 
ing-glasses at the hardware stores. All that is bright 
and gay attracts us both. 

Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boy¬ 
hood, as well as present partialities, give a peculiar 
magic. How delightful to let the fancy revel on the 
dainties of a confectioner: those pies, with such white 
and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether 
rich mince, with whole plums intermixed, or piquant 
apple, delicately rose flavored; those cakes, heart- 
shaped or round, piled in a lofty pyramid; those sweet 
little circlets, sweetly named kisses ; those dark majes¬ 
tic masses, fit to be bridal loaves at the wedding of 
an heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply 
snow-covered with sugar ! Then the mighty treasures 

VOL. L 10 


146 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


of sugar-plums, white and crimson and yellow, in 
large glass vases; and candy of all varieties; and 
those little cockles, or whatever they are called, much 
prized by children for their sweetness, and more for 
the mottoes which they inclose, by love-sick maids and 
bachelors! Oh, my mouth waters, little Annie, and so 
doth yours; but we will not be tempted, except to an 
imaginary feast; so let us hasten onward, devouring 
the vision of a plum cake. 

Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a 
more exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. Is 
Annie a literary lady? Yes; she is deeply read in 
Peter Parley’s tomes, and has an increasing love for 
fairy tales, though seldom met with nowadays, and 
she will subscribe, next year, to the Juvenile Miscel¬ 
lany. But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from 
the printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty pict¬ 
ures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this 
shop window the continual loitering-place of children. 
What would Annie think if, in the book which I 
mean to send her on New Year’s Day, she should find 
her sweet little self, bound up in silk or morocco with 
gilt edges, there to remain till she become a woman 
grown, with children of her own to read about their 
mother’s childhood! That would be very queer. 

Little Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me on¬ 
ward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the most 
wondrous shop in all the town. Oh, my stars! Is this 
a toyshop, or is it fairyland? For here are gilded 
chariots, in which the king and queen of the fairies 
might ride side by side, while their courtiers, on these 
small horses, should gallop in triumphal procession 
before and behind the royal pair. Here, too, are 
dishes of china ware, fit to be the dining set of those 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


147 


same princely personages, when they make a regal 
banquet in the stateliest hall of their palace, full five 
feet high, and behold their nobles feasting adown the 
long perspective of the table. Betwixt the king and 
queen should sit my little Annie, the prettiest fairy of 
them all. Here stands a turbaned turk, threatening 
us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as he is. And 
next a Chinese mandarin, who nods his head at Annie 
and myself. Here we may review a whole army of 
horse and foot, in red and blue uniforms, with drums, 
fifes, trumpets, and all kinds of noiseless music; they 
have, halted on the shelf of this window, after then 
weary march from Liliput. But what cares Annie for 
soldiers? No conquering queen is she, neither a Se- 
miramis nor a Catharine; her whole heart is set upon 
that doll, who gazes at us with such a fashionable stare. 
This is the little girl’s true plaything. Though made 
of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage, 
endowed by childish fancy with a peculiar life ; the 
mimic lady is a heroine of romance, an actor and a 
sufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, the chief inhab¬ 
itant of that wild world with which children ape the 
real one. Little Annie does not understand what I 
am saying, but looks wishfully at the proud lady in 
the window. We will invite her home with us as we 
return. Meantime, good-by, Dame Doll! A toy your¬ 
self, you look forth from your window upon many 
ladies that are also toys, though they walk and speak, 
and upon a crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear 
grave visages. Oh, with your never closing eyes, had 
you but an intellect to moralize on all that flits before 
them, what a wise doll would you be! Come, little 
Amnie, we shall find toys enough, go where we may. 

Now we elbow our way among the throng again. 


148 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


It is curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to 
meet with living creatures that had their birthplace in 
some far solitude, but have acquired a second nature 
in the wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that 
canary bird, hanging out of the window in his cage. 
Poor little fellow! His golden feathers are all tar¬ 
nished in this smoky sunshine; he would have glis¬ 
tened twice as brightly among the summer islands; 
but still he has become a citizen in all his tastes and 
habits, and would not sing half so well without the up¬ 
roar that drowns his music. What a pity that he does 
not know how miserable he is! There is a parrot, too, 
calling out, “Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll! ” as we pass 
by. Foolish bird, to be talking about her prettiness 
to strangers, especially as she is not a pretty Poll, 
though gaudily dressed in green and yellow. If she 
had said “ Pretty Annie,” there would have been 
some sense in it. See that gray squirrel, at the door 
of the fruit shop, whirling round and round so merrily 
within his wire wheel! Being condemned to the tread¬ 
mill, he makes it an amusement. Admirable philos- 
ophy! 

Here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman’s dog, 
in search of his master ; smelling at everybody’s heels, 
and touching little Annie’s hand with his cold nose, 
but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted 
him. Success to your search, Fidelity! And there 
sits a great yellow cat upon a window sill, a very cor¬ 
pulent and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory 
vorld, with owl’s eyes, and making pithy comments, 
doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. O, 
sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will 
be a pair of philosophers ! 

Here we see something to remind us of the towij 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


149 


crier, and his ding-dong bell! Look ! look at that 
great cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over 
with wild beasts, as if they had met together to choose 
a king, according to their custom in the days of iEsop. 
But they are choosing neither a king nor a president, 
else we should hear a most horrible snarling ! They 
have come from the deep woods, and the wild moun¬ 
tains, and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only 
to do homage to my little Annie. As we enter among 
them, the great elephant makes us a how, in the best 
style of elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his 
mountain bulk, with trunk abased, and leg thrust out 
behind. Annie returns the salute, much to the gratifi¬ 
cation of the elephant, who is certainly the best-bred 
monster in the caravan. The lion and the lioness are 
busy with two beef bones. The royal tiger, the beauti¬ 
ful, the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with 
a haughty step, unmindful of the spectators, or recall¬ 
ing the fierce deeds of his former life, when he was 
wont to leap forth upon such inferior animals from 
the jungles of Bengal. 

Here we see the very same wolf — do not go near 
him, Annie! — the selfsame wolf that devoured little 
Red Riding Hood and her grandmother. In the next 
cage, a hyena from Egypt, who has doubtless howled 
around the pyramids, and a black bear from our own 
forests, are fellow-prisoners, and most excellent friends. 
Are there any two living creatures who have so few 
sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends ? 
Here sits a great white hear, whom common observers 
would call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him 
to be only absorbed in contemplation ; he is thinking 
of his voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable 
home in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the lit 


X50 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


tie cubs whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. 
In fact, he is a bear of sentiment. But, oh, those un¬ 
sentimental monkeys! the ugly, grinning, aping, chat¬ 
tering, ill-natured, mischievous, and queer little brutes. 
Annie does not love the monkeys. Their ugliness 
shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and 
makes her mind unquiet, because it bears a wild and 
dark resemblance to humanity. But here is a little 
pony, just big enough for Annie to ride, and round 
and round he gallops in a circle, keeping time with 
his trampling hoofs to a band of music. And here — 
with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a riding whip 
in his hand — here comes a little gentleman, small 
enough to be king of the fairies, and ugly enough to 
be king of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the 
saddle. Merrily, merrily plays the music, and mer¬ 
rily gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old 
gentleman. Come, Annie, into the street again; per¬ 
chance we may see monkeys on horseback there! 

Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people 
live in ! Did Annie ever read the Cries of London 
City ? W ith what lusty lungs doth yonder man pro¬ 
claim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters ! Here 
comes another mounted on a cart, and blowing a 
hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as 
to say u Fresh fish!” And hark! a voice on high, 
like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, 
announcing that some chimney sweeper has emerged 
from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the 
upper air. What cares the world for that? But, 
welladay, we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the 
scream of a little child, rising louder with every repe¬ 
tition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced 
by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes, 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


151 


though without experience of such direful woe. Lo! 
the town crier again, with some new secret for the 
public ear. Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost 
pocket-book, or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of 
some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the 
caravan ? I guess the latter. See how he uplifts the 
bell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, 
then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to 
strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered 
forth in quick succession, far and near. 

Ding-dong ! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! 

Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the 
din of the town ; it drowns the buzzing talk of many 
tongues, and draws each man’s mind from his own 
business ; it rolls up and down the echoing street, 
and ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and 
penetrates downward to the cellar kitchen, where the 
hot cook turns from the fire to listen. W T ho, of all 
that address the public ear, whether in church, or 
court-house, or hall of state, has such an attentive 
audience as the town crier ? What said the people’s 
orator ? 

“ Strayed from her home, a little girl, of five 
years old, in a blue silk frock and white pantalets, 
with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever 
will bring her back to her afflicted mother ” — 

Stop, stop, town crier ! The lost is found. O, my 
pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our 
ramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the town 
crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting 
old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not 
once let go my hand ! Well, let us hasten homeward; 
and as we go, forget not to thank Heaven, my Annie, 
that, after wandering a little way into the world, you 


152 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


may return at the first summons, with an untainted 
and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. 
But I have gone too far astray for the town crier to 
call me back. 

Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, 
throughout my ramble with little Annie! Say not 
that it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle 
matter, a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of 
childish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a 
grown man’s notice. Has it been merely this ? Not 
so; not so. They are not truly wise who would affirm 
it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of 
aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free 
and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy 
mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused 
and soon allayed. Their influence on us is at least 
reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is 
almost forgotten, and our boyhood long departed, 
though it seems but as yesterday ; when life settles 
darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether to call 
ourselves young any more, then it is good to steal 
away from the society of bearded men, and even of 
gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with chil¬ 
dren. After drinking from those fountains of still 
fresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as I 
do now, to struggle onward and do our part in life, 
perhaps as fervently as ever, but, for a time, with a 
kinder and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise 
All this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie I 


WAKEFIELD. 


In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a 
story, told as truth, of a man — let us call him Wake- 
field — who absented himself for a long time from his 
wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very 
uncommon, nor — without a proper distinction of cir¬ 
cumstances — to he condemned either as naughty or 
nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most 
aggravated, is perhaps the strangest, instance on rec¬ 
ord, of marital delinquency; and, moreover, as re¬ 
markable a freak as may he found in the whole list of 
human oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. 
The man, imder pretence of going a journey, took 
lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, 
unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the 
shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt 
upwards of twenty years. During that period, he be¬ 
held his home every day, and frequently the forlorn 
Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his 
matrimonial felicity — when his death was reckoned 
certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from 
memory, and his wife, long, long ago, resigned to her 
autumnal widowhood -— he entered the door one even¬ 
ing, quietly, as from a day’s absence, and became a 
loving spouse till death. 

This outline is all that I remember. But the inci¬ 
dent, though of the purest originality, unexampled, 
and probably never to he repeated, is one, I think, 
which appeals to the generous sympathies of mankind. 


154 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


We know, each for himself, that none of us would 
perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might. 
To my own contemplations, at least, it has often re¬ 
curred, always exciting wonder, hut with a sense that 
the story must he true, and a conception of its hero’s 
character. Whenever any subject so forcibly afreets 
the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. If the 
reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or if he 
prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of 
Wakefield’s vagary, I bid him welcome; trusting that 
there will be a pervading spirit and a moral, even 
should we fail to find them, done up neatly, and con¬ 
densed into the final sentence. Thought has always its 
efficacy, and every striking incident its moral. 

What sort of a man was Wakefield ? We are free 
to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name. 
He was now in the meridian of life ; his matrimonial 
affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, 
habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to 
be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness 
would keep his heart at rest, wherever it might be 
placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so ; his 
mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings, that 
ended to no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it; 
his thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold 
of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the 
term, made no part of Wakefield’s gifts. With a 
cold but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a 
mind never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor per¬ 
plexed with originality, who could have anticipated 
that our friend would entitle himself to a foremost 
place among the doers of eccentric deeds ? Had his 
acquaintances been asked, who was the man in Lon¬ 
don the surest to perform nothing to-day which should 


WAKEFIELD . 


155 


be remembered on the morrow, they would have 
thought of Wakefield. Only the wife of his bosom 
might have hesitated. She, without having analyzed 
his character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness, 
that had rusted into his inactive mind; of a peculiar 
sort of vanity, the most uneasy attribute about him ; 
of a disposition to craft, which had seldom produced 
more positive effects than the keeping of petty se¬ 
crets, hardly worth revealing; and, lastly, of what she 
called a little strangeness, sometimes, in the good man. 
This latter quality is indefinable, and perhaps non-ex¬ 
istent. 

Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his 
wife. It is the dusk of an October evening. His 
equipment is a drab great-coat, a hat covered with an 
oilcloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a 
small portmanteau in the other. He has informed 
Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night coach into 
the country. She would fain inquire the length of 
his journey, its object, and the probable time of his 
return; but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, 
interrogates him only by a look. He tells her not to 
expect him positively by the return coach, nor to be 
alarmed should he tarry three or four days; but, at 
all events, to look for him at supper on Friday even¬ 
ing. Wakefield himself, be it considered, has no sus¬ 
picion of what is before him. He holds out his hand, 
she gives her own, and meets his parting kiss in the 
matter-of-course way of a ten years’ matrimony; and 
forth goes the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, almost re¬ 
solved to perplex his good lady by a whole week’s ab¬ 
sence. After the door has closed behind him, she 
perceives it thrust partly open, and a vision of her 
husband’s face, through the aperture, smiling on hen 


156 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and gone in a moment. For the time, this little inci¬ 
dent is dismissed without a thought. But, long after¬ 
wards, when she has been more years a widow than a 
wife, that smile recurs, and flickers across all her rem¬ 
iniscences of Wakefield’s visage. In her many mus- 
ings, she surrounds the original smile with a multi¬ 
tude of fantasies, which make it strange and awful: 
as, for instance, if she imagines him in a coffin, that 
parting look is frozen on his pale features ; or, if she 
dreams of him in heaven, still his blessed spirit wears 
a quiet and crafty smile. Yet, for its sake, when all 
others have given him up for dead, she sometimes 
doubts whether she is a widow. 

But our business is with the husband. We must 
hurry after him along the street, ere he lose his indi¬ 
viduality, and melt into the great mass of London 
life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let 
us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after sev¬ 
eral superfluous turns and doublings, we find him com¬ 
fortably established by the fireside of a small apart¬ 
ment, previously bespoken. He is in the next street 
to his own, and at his journey’s end. He can scarcely 
trust his good fortune, in having got thither unper¬ 
ceived— recollecting that, at one time, he was delayed 
by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern; 
and, again, there were footsteps that seemed to tread 
behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp 
around him; and, anon, he heard a voice shouting 
afar, and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless, 
a dozen busybodies had been watching him, and told 
his wife the whole affair. Poor Wakefield! Little 
knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great 
world! No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. 
Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man; and, on the mor 


WAKEFIELD. 


157 


row, if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. 
Wakefield, and tell her the truth. Remove not thy¬ 
self, even for a little week, from thy place in her chaste 
bosom. Were she. for a single moment, to deem thee 
dead, or lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou 
wouldst be wofully conscious of a change in thy true 
wife forever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in 
human affections ; not that they gape so long and 
wide — but so quickly close again ! 

Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may 
be termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and starting 
from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide 
and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed. “ No,” — 
thinks he, gathering the bedclothes about him, — “I 
will not sleep alone another night.” 

In the morning he rises earlier than usual, and sets 
himself to consider what he really means to do. Such 
are his loose and rambling modes of thought that he 
has taken this very singular step with the conscious¬ 
ness of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to 
define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The 
vagueness of the project, and the convulsive effort with 
which he plunges into the execution of it, are equally 
characteristic of a feeble-minded man. Wakefield sifts 
his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and finds 
himself curious to know the progress of matters at 
home — how his exemplary wife will endure her widow¬ 
hood of a week; and, briefly, how the little sphere of 
creatures and circumstances, in which he was a central 
object, will be affected by his removal. A morbid 
vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. 
But, how is he to attain his ends? Not, certainly, 
by keeping close in this comfortable lodging, where, 
though he slept and awoke in the next street to his 


158 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


home, he is as effectually abroad as if the stage-coach 
had been whirling him away all night. Yet, should 
he reappear, the whole project is knocked in the head. 
His poor brains being hopelessly puzzled with this di¬ 
lemma, he at length ventures out, partly resolving to 
cross the head of the street, and send one hasty glance 
towards his forsaken domicile. Habit—for he is a 
man of habits — takes him by the hand, and guides 
him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where, just at 
the critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping of 
his foot upon the step. Wakefield ! whither are you 
going ? 

At that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. 
Little dreaming of the doom to which his first back¬ 
ward step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless 
with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn 
his head at the distant corner. Can it be that nobody 
caught sight of him? Will not the whole household 
— the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart maid servant, 
and the dirty little footboy — raise a hue and cry, 
through London streets, in pursuit of their fugitive 
lord and master ? W r onderful escape ! He gathers 
courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed 
with a sense of change about the familiar edifice, such 
as affects us all, when, after a separation of months or 
years, we again see some hill or lake, or work of art, 
with which we were friends of old. In ordinary cases, 
this indescribable impression is caused by the compar¬ 
ison and contrast between our imperfect reminiscences 
and the reality. In Wakefield, the magic of a single 
night has wrought a similar transformation, because, 
in that brief period, a great moral change has been 
effected. But this is a secret from himself. Before 
leaving the spot, he catches a far and momentary 


WAKEFIELD. 


159 


glimpse of his wife, passing athwart the front window, 
with her face turned towards the head of the street. 
The crafty nincompoop takes to his heels, scared with 
the idea that, among a thousand such atoms of mor¬ 
tality, her eye must have detected him. Right glad is 
his heart, though his brain he somewhat dizzy, when 
he finds himself by the coal fire of his lodgings. 

So much for the commencement of this lone: whinv 
wham. After the initial conception, and the stirring 
up of the man’s sluggish temperament to put it in 
practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural 
train. We may suppose him, as the result of deep 
deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish hair, and 
selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his cus¬ 
tomary suit of brown, from a Jew’s old-clothes bag. 
It is accomplished. Wakefield is another man. The 
new system being now established, a retrograde move¬ 
ment to the old would be almost as difficult as the step 
that placed him in his unparalleled position. Further¬ 
more, he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness occasion¬ 
ally incident to his temper, and brought on at present 
by the inadequate sensation which he conceives to 
have been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield. 
He will not go back until she be frightened half to 
death. Well; twice or thrice has she passed before 
his sight, each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek, 
and more anxious brow; and in the third week of his 
non-appearance he detects a portent of evil entering 
the house, in the guise of an apothecary. Next day 
the knocker is muffled. Towards nightfall comes the 
chariot of a physician, and deposits its big-wigged and 
solemn burden at Wakefield’s door, whence, after a 
quarter of an hour’s visit, he emerges, perchance the 
herald of a funeral. Dear woman! Will she die? 


160 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


By this time, Wakefield is excited to something like 
energy of feeling, but still lingers away from his wife’s 
bedside, pleading with his conscience that she must 
not be disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else re¬ 
strains him, he does not know it. In the course of a 
few weeks she gradually recovers; the crisis is over; 
her heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet; and, let him re¬ 
turn soon or late, it will never be feverish for him 
again. Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wake¬ 
field’s mind, and render him indistinctly conscious 
that an almost impassable gulf divides his hired apart¬ 
ment from his former home. “ It is but in the next 
street!” he sometimes says. Fool! it is in another 
world. Hitherto, he has put off his return from one 
particular day to another; henceforward, he leaves the 
precise time undetermined. Not to-morrow — prob¬ 
ably next week — pretty soon. Poor man ! The dead 
have nearly as much chance of revisiting their earthly 
homes as the self-banished Wakefield. 

Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an 
article of a dozen pages! Then might I exemplify 
how an influence beyond our control lays its strong 
hand on every deed which we do, and weaves its con¬ 
sequences into an iron tissue of necessity. Wakefield 
is spell-bound. We must leave him, for ten years or 
so, to haunt around his house, without once crossing 
the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife, with all 
the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is 
slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be re¬ 
marked, he had lost the perception of singularity in 
his conduct. 

Now for a scene! Amid the throng of a London 
street we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with 
few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet 


WAKEFIELD. 


161 


bearing, in his whole aspect, the handwriting of no 
common fate, for such as have the skill to read it. He 
is meagre ; his low and narrow forehead is deeply 
wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes 
wander apprehensively about him, hut oftener seem to 
look inward. He bends his head, and moves with an 
indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to dis¬ 
play his full front to the world. Watch him long 
enough to see what we have described, and you will 
allow that circumstances — which often produce re¬ 
markable men from nature’s ordinary handiwork — 
have produced one such here. Next, leaving him to 
sidle along the footwalk, cast your eyes in the opposite 
direction, where a portly female, considerably in the 
wane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is pro¬ 
ceeding to yonder church. She has the placid mien of 
settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died away, 
or have become so essential to her heart, that they 
would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the lean 
man and well-conditioned woman are passing, a slight 
obstruction occurs, and brings these two figures di¬ 
rectly in contact. Their hands touch ; the pressure of 
the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder; they 
stand, face to face, staring into each other’s eyes. Af¬ 
ter a ten years’ separation, thus Wakefield meets his 
wife! 

The throng eddies away, and carries them asunder. 
The sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds 
to church, but pauses in the portal, and throws a per¬ 
plexed glance along the street. She passes in, how¬ 
ever, opening her prayer-book as she goes. And the 
man! with so wild a face that busy and selfish Lon¬ 
don stands to gaze after him, he hurries to his lodgings, 

bolts the door, and throws himself upon the bed. The 

11 


VOL. I. 


162 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


latent feelings of years break out; his feeble mind ao 
quires a brief energy from their strength; all the mis¬ 
erable strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a 
glance: and he cries out, passionately, “ Wakefield! 
Wakefield! You are mad! ” 

Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation 
must have so moulded him to himself, that, considered 
in regard to his fellow-creatures and the business of 
life, he could not be said to possess his right mind. 
He had contrived, or rather he had happened, to dis¬ 
sever himself from the world — to vanish — to give 
up his place and privileges with living men, without 
being admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit 
is nowise parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the 
city, as of old; but the crowd swept by and saw him 
not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside his 
wife and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth 
of the one nor the affection of the other. It was 
Wakefield’s unprecedented fate to retain his original 
share of human sympathies, and to be still involved in 
human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influ¬ 
ence on them. It would be a most curious speculation 
to trace out the effect of such circumstances on his 
heart and intellect, separately, and in unison. Yet, 
changed as he was, he would seldom be conscious of it, 
but deem himself the same man as ever; glimpses of 
the truth, indeed, would come, but only for the mo¬ 
ment ; and still he would keep saying, “ I shall soon 
go back!” — nor reflect that he had been saying so 
for twenty years. 

I conceive, also, that these twenty years would ap- 
pear, in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week 
to which Wakefield had at first limited his absence. 
He would look on the affair as no more than an inter- 


WAKEFIELD. 


163 


Iude in the main business of his life. When, after a 
little while more, he should deem it time to reenter his 
parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy, on be¬ 
holding the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what 
a mistake! Would Time but await the close of our 
favorite follies, we should be young men, all of us, and 
till Doomsday. 

One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, 
Wakefield is taking his customary walk towards the 
dwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty 
night of autumn, with frequent showers that patter 
down upon the pavement, and are gone before a man 
can put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house, 
Wakefield discerns, through the parlor windows of the 
second floor, the red glow and the glimmer and fitful 
flash of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a 
grotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, 
the nose and chin, and the broad waist, form an ad¬ 
mirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the 
up-flickering and down-sinking blaze, almost too mer¬ 
rily for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instant 
a shower chances to fall, and is driven, by the unman¬ 
nerly gust, full into Wakefield’s face and bosom. He 
is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he 
stand, wet and shivering here, when his own hearth has 
a good fire to warm him, and his own wife will run to 
fetch the gray coat and small-clothes, which, doubtless, 
she has kept carefully in the closet of tjieir bed cham¬ 
ber? No! Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends 
the steps — heavily! — for twenty years have stiffened 
his legs since he came down — but he knows it not. 
Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the sole home 
that is left you ? Then step into your grave! The 
door opens. As he passes in, we have a parting 


164 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


glimpse of his visa'ge, and recognize the crafty smile, 
which was the precursor of the little joke that he has 
ever since been playing off at his wife’s expense. How 
unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! Well, a 
good night’s rest to Wakefield! 

This happy event — supposing it to be such — could 
only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. 
We will not follow our friend across the threshold. 
He has left us much food for thought, a portion of 
which shall lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped 
into a figure. Amid the seeming confusion of our 
mysterious world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to 
a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, 
that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes 
himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever. 
Like Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the Out- 
cast of the Universe. 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 

(Scene — the corner of two principal streets . 1 The Town Pump 

talking through its nose.) 

Noon, by the North clock! Noon, by the east! 
High noon, too, by these hot sunbeams which fall, 
scarcely aslope, upon my head, and almost make the 
water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. 
Truly, we public characters have a tough time of it! 
And, among all the town officers, chosen at March 
meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single year, 
the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed, 
in perpetuity, upon the Town Pump ? The title of 
“ town treasurer ” is rightfully mine, as guardian of 
the best treasure that the town has. The overseers of 
the poor ought to make me their chairman, since I 
provide bountifully for the pauper, without expense to 
him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire de¬ 
partment, and one of the physicians to the board of 
health. As a keeper of the peace, all water drinkers 
will confess me equal to the constable. I perform 
some of the duties of the town clerk, by promulgating 
public notices, when they are posted on my front. To 
speak within bounds, I am the chief person of the 
municipality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pat¬ 
tern to my brother officers, by the cool, steady, up¬ 
right, downright, and impartial discharge of my busi¬ 
ness, and the constancy with which I stand to my post. 
Summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain ; for, all 
1 Essex and Washington Streets, Salem. 


166 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


day long, I am seen at the busiest corner, just above 
the market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor 
alike; and at night, I hold a lantern over my head, 
both to show where I am, and keep people out of the 
gutters. 

At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the 
parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is 
chained to my waist. Like a dram seller on the mall, 
at muster day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my 
plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice: 
Here it is, gentlemen! Here is the good liquor! 
Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up! 
Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated 
ale of father Adam — better than Cognac, Hollands, 
Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price ; here it is, 
by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to 
pay ! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help your¬ 
selves ! 

It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no 
customers. Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen! 
Quaff, and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a 
nice cool sweat. You, my friend, will need another 
cupful, to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as 
thick there as it is on your cowhide shoes. I see that 
you have trudged half a score of miles to-day; and, 
like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and 
stopped at the running brooks and well curbs. Other¬ 
wise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would 
have been burned to a cinder, or melted down to noth¬ 
ing at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, and 
make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to 
quench the fiery fever of last night’s potations, which 
he drained from no cup of mine. Welcome, most 
rubicund sir! You and I have been great strangers 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 167 


hitherto ; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be 
anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your 
breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! the 
water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and 
is converted quite to steam in the miniature tophet 
which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and 
tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, 
in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram shop, spend 
the price of your children’s food for a swig half so 
delicious? Now, for the first time these ten years, 
you know the flavor of cold water. Good-by; and, 
whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a 
constant supply at the old stand. Who next? O, 
my little friend, you are let loose from school, and 
come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown 
the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other 
school-boy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump. 
Take it, pure as the current of your young life. Take 
it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched 
with a fiercer thirst than now! There, my dear child, 
put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly 
gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving- 
stones, that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. 
What! he limps by, without so much as thanking me, 
as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people 
who have no wine cellars. Well, well, sir — no harm 
done, I hope! Go draw the cork, tip the decanter; 
but, when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it 
will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleas¬ 
ant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town 
Pump. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling 
out, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his 
hind legs, and laps eagerly out of the trough. See 
how lightly he capers away again! Jowler, did your 
worship ever have the gout ? 


168 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, 
my good friends; and, while my spout has a moment’s 
leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical 
reminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome 
shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of 
the leaf-strewn earth, in the very spot where you now 
behold me, on the sunny pavement. The water was 
as bright and clear, and deemed as precious, as liquid 
diamonds. The Indian sagamores drank of it from 
time immemorial, till the fatal deluge of the fire water 
burst upon the red men, and swept their whole race 
away from the cold fountains. Endicott and his fol¬ 
lowers came next, and often knelt down to drink, dip¬ 
ping their long beards in the spring. The richest 
goblet, then, was of birch bark. Governor Winthrop, 
after a journey afoot from Boston, drank here, out of 
the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here 
wet his palm, and laid it on the brow of the first town- 
born child. For many years it was the watering-place, 
and, as it were, the washbowl of the vicinity — whither 
all decent folks resorted, to purify their visages and 
gaze at them afterwards — at least the pretty maidens 
did — in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath days, 
whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled 
his basin here, and placed it on the communion table 
of the humble meeting-house, which partly covered the 
site of yonder stately brick one. Thus, one generation 
after another was consecrated to Heaven by its waters, 
and cast their waxing and waning shadows into its 
glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mor¬ 
tal life were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally, 
the fountain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all 
sides, and cartloads of gravel flung upon its source, 
whence oozed a turbid stream, forming a mud puddle, 



A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 169 


at the corner of two streets. In the hot months, when 
its refreshment was most needed, the dust flew in 
clouds over the forgotten birthplace of the waters, now 
their grave. But, in the course of time, a Town Pump 
was sunk into the source of the ancient spring; and 
when the first decayed, another took its place — and 
then another, and still another — till here stand I, 
gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. 
Drink, and be refreshed! The water is as pure and 
cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red sagamore 
beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the 
wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where 
no shadow falls but from the brick buildings. And 
be it the moral of my story, that, as this wasted and 
long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, so 
shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued since 
your fathers’ days, be recognized by all. 

Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my 
stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of 
water, to replenish the trough for this teamster and 
his two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, 
or somewhere along that way. No part of my busi¬ 
ness is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! 
how rapidly they lower the watermark on the sides of 
the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened 
with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time 
to breathe it in, with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now 
they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their 
monstrous drinking vessel. An ox is your true toper. 

But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are im¬ 
patient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, 
I beseech you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a 
little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifa¬ 
rious merits. It is altogether for your good. The 


170 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


better you think of me, the better men and women 
will you find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my 
all-important aid on washing days ; though, on that 
account alone, I might call myself the household god 
of a hundred families. Far be it from me also to hint, 
my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces 
which you would present, without my pains to keep 
you clean. Nor will I remind you how often, when 
the midnight bells make you tremble for your combus¬ 
tible town, you have fled to the Town Pump, and 
found me always at my post, firm amid the confusion, 
and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. 
Neither is it, worth while to lay much stress on my 
claims to a medical diploma, as the physician whose 
simple ride of practice is preferable to all the nauseous 
lore which has found men sick or left them so, since 
the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a broader view 
of my beneficial influence on mankind. 

No; these are trifles compared with the merits 
which wise men concede to me — if not in my single 
self, yet as the representative of a class — of being the 
grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such 
spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse 
our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish, 
which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. 
In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great 
confederate. Milk and water! The Town Pump and 
the Cow! Such is the glorious copartnership that 
shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, uproot 
the vineyards, shatter the cider presses, ruin the tea 
and coffee trade, and, finally, monopolize the whole 
business of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation! 
Then, Poverty shall pass away from the land, finding 
no hovel so wretched where her squalid form may 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 171 


shelter itself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims, 
shall gnaw its own heart, and die. Then Sin, if she 
do not die, shall lose half her strength. Until now, 
the frenzy of hereditary fever has raged in the human 
blood, transmitted from sire to son, and rekindled, in 
every generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame. 
When that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat 
of passion cannot but grow cool, and war—the drunk¬ 
enness of nations — perhaps will cease. At least, there 
will be no war of households. The husband and wife, 
drinking deep of peaceful joy, — a calm bliss of tem¬ 
perate affections, — shall pass hand in hand through 
life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted 
close. To them, the past will be no turmoil of mad 
dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as 
follow the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces 
shall express what their spirits were, and are to be, by 
a lingering smile of memory and hope. 

Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to 
an unpractised orator. I never conceived, till now, 
what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. 
Hereafter, they shall have the business to themselves. 
Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just 
to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir! My dear hearers, 
when the world shall have been regenerated by my 
instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and 
liquor casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire 
in honor of the Town Pump. And, when I shall 
have decayed, like my predecessors, then, if you revere 
my memory, let a marble fountain, richly sculptured, 
take my place upon this spot. • Such monuments should 
be erected everywhere, and inscribed with the names 
of the distinguished champions of my cause. Now 
listen, for something very important is to come next. 


172 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


There are two or three honest friends of mine — and 
true friends, I know, they are — who nevertheless, by 
their fiery pugnacity in my behalf, do put me in fear- 
fid hazard of a broken nose or even a total overthrow 
upon the pavement, and the loss of the treasure which 
I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let tills fault be 
amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with 
zeal for temperance, and take up the honorable cause 
of the Town Pump in the style of a toper fighting' for 
his brandy bottle? Or, can the excellent qualities of 
cold water be not otherwise exemplified than by plung¬ 
ing, slapdash, into hot water, and wofully scalding 
yourselves and other people ? Trust me, they may. In 
the moral warfare which you are to wage—and, in¬ 
deed, in the whole conduct of your lives — you cannot 
choose a better example than myself, who have never 
permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the turbu¬ 
lence and manifold disquietudes of the world around 
me, to reach that deep, calm well of purity, which may 
be called my soul. And whenever I pour out that 
soul, it is to cool earth’s fever or cleanse its stains. 

One o’clock! Nay, then, if the dinner bell begins 
to speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes 
a pretty young girl of my acquaintance, with a large 
stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband, 
while drawing her water, as Rachel did of old. Hold 
out your vessel, my dear! There it is, full to the 
brim; so now rim home, peeping at your sweet image 
in the pitcher as you go; and forget not, in a glass of 
my own liquor, to drink — “ Success to the Town 
Pump I” 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE . 1 


A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

At nightfall, once in the olden time, on the rugged 
side of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of adventurers 
were refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and fruit¬ 
less quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come 
thither, not as friends nor partners in the enterprise, 
but each, save one youthful pair, impelled by his own 
selfish and solitary longing for this wondrous gem. 
Their feeling of brotherhood, however, was strong 
enough to induce them to contribute a mutual aid in 
building a rude hut of branches, and kindling a great 
fire of shattered pines, that had drifted down the head¬ 
long current of the Amonoosuck, on the lower bank of 
which they were to pass the night. There was but one 
of their number, perhaps, who had become so estranged 
from natural sympathies, by the absorbing spell of the 
pursuit, as to acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight 
of human faces, in the remote and solitary region 
whither they had ascended. A vast extent of wilder¬ 
ness lay between them and the nearest settlement, 
while a scant mile above their heads was that black 
verge where the hills throw off their shaggy mantle 
of forest trees, and either robe themselves in clouds 

1 The Indian tradition, on which this somewhat extravagant tale is 
founded, is both too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought 
up in prose. Sullivan, in his History of Maine, written since the Rev¬ 
olution, remarks, that even then the existence of the Great Carbuncle 
uras not entirely discredited. 


174 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


or tower naked into the sky. The roar of the Amo- 
noosuck would have been too awful for endurance if 
only a solitary man had listened, while the mountain 
stream talked with the wind. 

The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable 
greetings, and welcomed one another to the hut, where 
each man was the host, and all were the guests of the 
whole company. They spread their individual sup¬ 
plies of food on the flat surface of a rock, and partook 
of a general repast; at the close of which, a sentiment 
of good fellowship was perceptible among the party, 
though repressed by the idea, that the renewed search 
for the Great Carbuncle must make them strangers 
again in the morning. Seven men and one young 
woman, they warmed themselves together at the fire, 
which extended its bright wall along the whole front 
of their wigwam. As they observed the various and 
contrasted figures that made up the assemblage, each 
man looking like a caricature of himself, in the un¬ 
steady light that flickered over him, they came mutu¬ 
ally to the conclusion, that an odder society had never 
met, in city or wilderness, on mountain or plain. 

The eldest of the group, a tall, lean, weather-beaten 
man, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of 
wild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to 
imitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear, had 
long been his most intimate companions. He was one 
of those ill-fated mortals, such as the Indians told of, 
whom, in their early youth, the Great Carbuncle smote 
with a peculiar madness, and became the passionate 
dream of their existence. All who visited that region 
knew him as the Seeker, and by no other name. As 
none could remember when he first took up the search, 
there went a fable in the valley of the Saco, that foi 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


175 


his inordinate lust after the Great Carbuncle, he had 
been condemned to wander among the mountains till 
the end of time, still with the same feverish hopes at 
sunrise — the same despair at eve. Near this misera¬ 
ble Seeker sat a little elderly personage, wearing a 
high-crowned hat, shaped somewhat like a crucible. 
He was from beyond the sea, a Doctor Cacaphodel, 
who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy by 
continually stooping over charcoal furnaces, and in¬ 
haling unwholesome fumes during his researches in 
chemistry and alchemy. It was told of him, whether 
truly or not, that, at the commencement of his studies, 
he had drained his body of all its richest blood, and 
wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an 
unsuccessful experiment—and had never been a well 
man since. Another of the adventurers was Master 
/ Ichabod Pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman 
of Boston, and an elder of the famous Mr. Norton’s 
church. His enemies had a ridiculous story that Mas¬ 
ter Pigsnort was accustomed to spend a whole hour 
after prayer tune, every morning and evening, in wal¬ 
lowing naked among an immense quantity of pine-tree 
shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of Mas¬ 
sachusetts. The fourth whom we shall notice had no 
name that his companions knew of, and was chiefly 
distinguished by a sneer that always contorted his thin 
visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles, which 
were supposed to deform and discolor the whole face 
of nature, to this gentleman’s perception. The fifth 
adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was the 
greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. He was a 
bright-eyed man, but wofully pined away, which was 
no more than natural, if, as some people affirmed, his 
ordinary diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the 


176 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


densest cloud within his reach, sauced with moonshine, 
whenever he could get it. Certain it is, that the po¬ 
etry which flowed from him had a smack of all these 
dainties. The sixth of the party was a young man of 
haughty mien, and sat somewhat apart from the rest, 
wearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, while 
the fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress, 
and gleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his 
sword. This was the Lord de Vere, who, when at 
home, was said to spend much of his time in the burial 
vault of his dead progenitors, rummaging their mouldy 
coffins in search of all the earthly pride and vainglory 
that was hidden among bones and dust; so that, be¬ 
sides his own share, he had the collected haughtiness 
of his whole line of ancestry. 

Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, 
and by his side a blooming little person, in whom a 
delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into 
the rich glow of a young wife’s affection. Her name 
was Hannah, and her husband’s Matthew; two homely 
names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair, 
who seemed strangely out of place among the whimsi¬ 
cal fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the 
Great Carbuncle. 

Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze 
of the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, 
all so intent upon a single object, that, of whatever 
else they began to speak, their closing words were 
sure to be illuminated with the Great Carbuncle. 
Several related the circumstances that brought them 
thither. One had listened to a traveller’s tale of this 
marvellous stone in his own distant country, and had 
immediately been seized with such a thirst for behold¬ 
ing it as could only be quenched in its intensest 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


177 


lustre. Another, so long ago as when the famous 
Captain Smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing 
far at sea, and had felt no rest in all the intervening 
years till now that he took up the search. A third, 
being encamped on a hunting expedition full forty 
miles south of the White Mountains, awoke at mid¬ 
night, and beheld the Great Carbuncle gleaming like 
a meteor, so that the shadows of the trees fell back¬ 
ward from it. They spoke of the innumerable at¬ 
tempts which had been made to reach the spot, and of 
the singular fatality which had hitherto withheld suc¬ 
cess from all adventurers, though it might seem so 
easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered 
the moon, and almost matched the sun. It was ob¬ 
servable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of 
every other in anticipating better fortune than the 
past, yet nourished a scarcely hidden conviction that 
he would himself be the favored one. As if to allay 
their too sanguine hopes, they recurred to the Indian 
traditions that a spirit kept watch about the gem, and 
bewildered those who sought it either by removing it 
from peak to peak of the higher hills, or by calling up 
a mist from the enchanted lake over which it hung. 
But these tales were deemed unworthy of credit, all 
professing to believe that the search had been baffled 
by want of sagacity or perseverance in the adventur¬ 
ers, or such other causes as might naturally obstruct 
the passage to any given point among the intricacies 
of forest, Valley, and mountain. 

In a pause of the conversation the wearer of the 
prodigious spectacles looked round upon the party, 
making each individual, in turn, the object of the 
sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance. 

“ So, fellow-pilgrims,” said he, “ here we are, seven 

VOL. I. 12 


178 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


wise men, and one fair damsel — who, doubtless, is as 
wise as any graybeard of the company: here we are, 
I say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. Me- 
thinks, now, it were not amiss that each of us declare 
what he proposes to do with the Great Carbuncle, 
provided he have the good hap to clutch it. What 
says our friend in the bear skin ? How mean you, 
good sir, to enjoy the prize which you have been seek¬ 
ing, the Lord knows how long, among the Crystal 
Hills ? ” 

“ How enjoy it! ” exclaimed the aged Seeker, bit¬ 
terly. “ I hope for no enjoyment from it; that folly 
has passed long ago! I keep up the search for tills 
accursed stone because the vain ambition of my youth 
has become a fate upon me in old age. The pur¬ 
suit alone is my strength, — the energy of my soul, — 
the warmth of my blood, — and the pith and marrow 
of my bones! Were I to turn my back upon it I 
should fall down dead on the hither side of the Notch, 
which is the gateway of this mountain region. Yet 
not to have my wasted lifetime back again would I 
give up my hopes of the Great Carbuncle! Having 
found it, I shall bear it to a certain cavern that I wot 
of, and there, grasping it in my arms, lie down and 
die, and keep it buried with me forever.” 

“ O wretch, regardless of the interests of science ! ” 
cried Doctor Cacapliodel, with philosophic indigna¬ 
tion. “ Thou art not worthy to behold, even from 
afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever 
was concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is 
the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the 
possession of the Great Carbuncle. Immediately on 
obtaining it —for I have a presentiment, good peoples 
tihat the prize is reserved to crown my scientific repu 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE . 


1T9 


tation — I shall return to Europe, and employ my re¬ 
maining years in reducing it to its first elements. A 
portion of the stone will I grind to impalpable pow¬ 
der ; other parts shall be dissolved in acids, or what¬ 
ever solvents will act upon so admirable a composi¬ 
tion ; and the remainder I design to melt in the cruci¬ 
ble, or set on fire with the blow-pipe. By these various 
methods I shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally 
bestow the result of my labors upon the world in a 
folio volume.” 

44 Excellent! ” quoth the man with the spectacles. 
44 Nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the 
necessary destruction of the gem ; since the perusal 
of your folio may teach every mother’s son of us to 
concoct a Great Carbuncle of his own.” 

44 But, verily,” said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, 44 for 
mine own part I object to the making of these coun¬ 
terfeits, as being calculated to reduce the marketable 
value of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have 
an interest in keeping up the price. Here have I 
quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in 
the care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great 
hazard, and, furthermore, have put myself in peril of 
death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages —- 
and all this without daring to ask the prayers of the 
congregation, because the quest for the Great Car¬ 
buncle is deemed little better than a traffic with the 
Evil One. Now think ye that I would have done this 
grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation, and es¬ 
tate, without a reasonable chance of profit ? ” 

44 Not I, pious Master Pigsnort,” said the man with 
the spectacles. 44 1 never laid such a great folly to 
thy charge.” 

44 Truly, I hope not,” said the merchant. 44 Now, 


180 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


as touching this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own 
that I have never had a glimpse of it; but be it only 
the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will 
surely outvalue the Great Mogul’s best diamond, which 
he holds at an incalculable sum. Wherefore, I am 
minded to put the Great Carbuncle on shipboard, and 
voyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or 
into Heathendom, if Providence should send me 
thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best 
bidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may 
place it among his crown jewels. If any of ye have a 
wiser plan, let him expound it.” 

“ That have I, thou sordid man ! ” exclaimed the 
poet. “ Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold 
that thou wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre 
into such dross as thou wallowest in already? For 
myself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie 
me back to my attic chamber, in one of the darksome 
alleys of London. There, night and day, will I gaze 
upon it; my sold shall drink its radiance; it shall 
be diffused throughout my intellectual powers, and 
gleam brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. 
Thus, long ages after I am gone, the splendor of the 
Great Carbuncle will blaze around my name ! ” 

“ Well said, Master Poet! ” cried he of the specta¬ 
cles. “ Hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou ? Why, 
it will gleam through the holes, and make thee look 
like a jack-o’-lantern ! ” 

“To think ! ” ejaculated the Lord de Yere, rather 
to himself than his companions, the best of whom he 
held utterly unworthy of his intercourse — “to think 
that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of convey¬ 
ing the Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grub Street^ 
Have not I resolved within myself that the whole 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


181 


earth contains no fitter ornament for the great hall of 
my ancestral castle? There shall it flame for ages, 
making a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits 
of armor, the banners, and escutcheons, that hang 
around the wall, and keeping bright the memory of 
heroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers sought 
the prize in vain but that I might win it, and make it 
a symbol of the glories of our lofty line? And never, 
on the diadem of the White Mountains, did the Great 
Carbuncle hold a place half so honored as is reserved 
for it in the hall of the De Yeres! ” 

“ It is a noble thought,” said the Cynic, with an ob¬ 
sequious sneer. “ Yet, might I presume to say so, the 
gem would make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would 
display the glories of your lordship’s progenitors more 
truly in the ancestral vault than in the castle hall.” 

“ Nay, forsooth,” observed Matthew, the young rus¬ 
tic, who sat hand in hand with his bride, “ the gentle¬ 
man has bethought himself of a profitable use for this 
bright stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a 
like purpose.” 

“ How, fellow ! ” exclaimed his lordship, in surprise. 
“ What castle hall hast thou to hang it in ? ” 

“ No castle,” replied Matthew, “ but as neat a cot¬ 
tage as any within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye 
must know, friends, that Hannah and I, being wedded 
the last week, have taken up the search of the Great 
Carbuncle, because we shall need its light in the long 
winter evenings ; and it will be such a pretty thing to 
show the neighbors when they visit us. It will shine 
through the house so that we may pick up a pin in 
any corner, and will set all the windows agiowing as 
if there were a great fire of pine knots in the chimney. 
And then how pleasant, when we awake in the night, 
to be able to see one another’s faces I ” 


182 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


There was a general smile among the adventurers 
at the simplicity of the young couple’s project in re¬ 
gard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which 
the greatest monarch on earth might have been proud 
to adorn his palace. Especially the man with specta¬ 
cles, who had sneered at all the company in turn, now 
twisted his visage into such an expression of ill-nat¬ 
ured mirth, that Matthew asked him, rather peevishly, 
what he himself meant to do with the Great Car¬ 
buncle. 

“ The Great Carbuncle! ” answered the Cynic, with 
ineffable scorn. “ Why, you blockhead, there is no 
such thing in rerum natura. I have come three thou¬ 
sand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every 
peak of these mountains, and poke my head into every 
chasm, for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the 
satisfaction of any man one whit less an ass than thy¬ 
self that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug! ” 

Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought 
most of the adventurers to the Crystal Hills; but 
none so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of 
the scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was 
one of those wretched and evil men whose yearnings 
are downward to the darkness, instead of heaven¬ 
ward, and who, could they but extinguish the lights 
which God hath kindled for us, would count the mid- 
night gloom their chiefest glory. As the Cynic spoke, 
several of the party were startled by a gleam of red 
splendor, that showed the huge shapes of the sur¬ 
rounding mountains and the rock-bestrewn bed of the 
turbulent river with an illumination unlike that of 
their fire on the trunks and black boughs of the 
forest trees. They listened for the roll of thunder, 
but heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


183 


came not near them. The stars, those dial points of 
heaven, now warned the adventurers to close their 
eyes on the blazing logs, and open them, in dreams, to 
the glow of the Great Carbuncle. 

The young married couple had taken their lodgings 
in the farthest corner of the wigwam, and were sepa¬ 
rated from the rest of the party by a curtain of 
curiously-woven twigs, such as might have hung, in 
deep festoons, around the bridal-bower of Eve. The 
modest little wife had wrought this piece of tapestry 
while the other guests were talking. She and her 
husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and 
awoke from visions of unearthly radiance to meet the 
more blessed light of one another’s eyes. They awoke 
at the same instant, and with one happy smile beam¬ 
ing over their two faces, which grew brighter with 
their consciousness of the reality of life and love. 
But no sooner did she recollect where they were, than 
the bride peeped through the interstices of the leafy 
curtain, and saw that the outer room of the hut was 
deserted. 

“Up, dear Matthew!” cried she, in haste. “The 
strange folk are all gone! Up, this very minute, or 
we shall lose the Great Carbuncle! ” 

In truth, so little did these poor young people de¬ 
serve the mighty prize which had lured them thither, 
that they had slept peacefully all night, and till the 
summits of the hills were glittering with sunshine; 
while the other adventurers had tossed their limbs in 
feverish wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing preci¬ 
pices, and set off to realize their dreams with the 
earliest peep of dawn. But Matthew and Hannah, 
after their calm rest, were as light as two young deer, 
and merely stopped to say their prayers and wash 


184 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


themselves in a cold pool of the Amonoosuck, and 
then to taste a morsel of food, ere they turned their 
faces to the mountain-side. It was a sweet emblem of 
conjugal affection, as they toiled up the difficult as¬ 
cent, gathering strength from the mutual aid which 
they afforded. After several little accidents, such as 
a torn robe, a lost shoe, and the entanglement of Han¬ 
nah’s hair in a bough, they reached the upper verge of 
the forest, and were now to pursue a more adventu¬ 
rous course. The innumerable trunks and heavy fo¬ 
liage of the trees had hitherto shut in their thoughts, 
which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind 
and cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine, that 
rose immeasurably above them. They gazed back at 
the obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and 
longed to be buried again in its depths rather than 
trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude. 

“ Shall we go on?” said Matthew, throwing his arm 
round Hannah’s waist, both to protect her and to com¬ 
fort his heart by drawing her close to it. 

But the little bride, simple as she was, had a 
woman’s love of jewels, and could not forego the hope 
of possessing the very brightest in the world, in spite 
of the perils with which it must be won. 

“ Let us climb a little higher,” whispered she, yet 
tremulously, as she turned her face upward to the 
lonely sky. 

“ Come, then,” said Matthew, mustering his manly 
courage and drawing her along with him, for she be¬ 
came timid again the moment that he grew bold. 

And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the 
Great Carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and 
thickly-interwoven branches of dwarf pines, which, by 
the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE . 


185 


barely reached three feet in altitude. Next, they 
came to masses and fragments of naked rock heaped 
confusedly together, like a cairn reared by giants in 
memory of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of 
upper air nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was 
no life but what was concentrated in their two hearts; 
they had climbed so high that Nature herself seemed 
no longer to keep them company. She lingered be¬ 
neath them, within the verge of the forest trees, and 
sent a farewell glance after her children as they 
strayed where her own green footprints had never 
been. But soon they were to be hidden from her eye. 
Densely and dark the mists began to gather below, 
casting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape, 
and sailing heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest 
mountain peak had summoned a council of its kindred 
clouds. Finally, the vapors welded themselves, as it 
were, into a mass, presenting the appearance of a 
pavement over which the wanderers might have 
trodden, but where they would vainly have sought an 
avenue to the blessed earth which they had lost. And 
the lovers yearned to behold that green earth again, 
more intensely, alas! than, beneath a clouded sky, 
they had ever desired a glimpse of heaven. They 
even felt it a relief to their desolation when the 
mists, creeping gradually up the mountain, concealed 
its lonely peak, and thus annihilated, at least for 
them, the whole region of visible space. But they 
drew closer together, with a fond and melancholy 
gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud should snatch 
them from each other’s sight. 

Still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to 
climb as far and as high, between earth and heaven, 
as they could find foothold, if Hannah’s strength liafi 


186 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


not begun to fail, and with that, her courage also. 
Her breath grew short. She refused to burden her 
husband with her weight, but often tottered against 
his side, and recovered herself each time by a feebler 
effort. At last, she sank down on one of the rocky 
steps of the acclivity. 

“We are lost, dear Matthew,” said she,mournfully. 
“We shall never find our way to the earth again. 
And oh how happy we might have been in our cot¬ 
tage ! ” 

“Dear heart! — we will yet be happy there,” an¬ 
swered Matthew. “ Look! In this direction, the sun¬ 
shine penetrates the dismal mist. By its aid, I can 
direct our course to the passage of the Notch. Let 
us go back, love, and dream no more of the Great 
Carbuncle ! ” 

“ The sun cannot be yonder,” said Hannah, with 
despondence. “ By this time it must be noon. If 
there could ever be any sunshine here, it would come 
from above our heads.” 

“ But look! ” repeated Matthew, in a somewhat 
altered tone. “ It is brightening every moment. If 
not sunshine; what can it be ? ” 

Nor could the young bride any longer deny that a 
radiance was breaking through the mist, and changing 
its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew 
more vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused 
with the gloom. Now, also, the cloud began to roll 
away from the mountain, while, as it heavily with¬ 
drew, one object after another started out of its im¬ 
penetrable obscurity into sight, with precisely the ef¬ 
fect of a new creation, before the indistinctness of the 
old chaos had been completely swallowed up. As the 
process went on, they saw the gleaming of water close 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


187 


at their feet, and found themselves on the very border 
of a mountain lake, deep, bright, clear, and calmly 
beautiful, spreading from brim to brim of a basin that 
had been scooped out of the solid rock. A ray of 
glory flashed across its surface. The pilgrims looked 
whence it should proceed, but closed their eyes with 
a thrill of awful admiration, to exclude the fervid 
splendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff impend¬ 
ing over the enchanted lake. For the simple pair had 
reached that lake of mystery, and found the long- 
sought shrine of the Great Carbuncle ! 

They threw their arms around each other, and 
trembled at their own success ; for, as the legends of 
this wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory, 
they felt themselves marked out by fate — and the 
consciousness was fearful. Often, from childhood up¬ 
ward, they had seen it shining like a distant star. And 
now that star was throwing its intensest lustre on their 
hearts. They seemed changed to one another’s eyes, 
in the red brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks, 
while it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, and 
sky, and to the mists which had rolled back before its 
power. But, with their next glance, they beheld an 
object that drew their attention even from the mighty 
stone. At the base of the cliff, directly beneath the 
Great Carbuncle, appeared the figure of a man, with 
his arms extended in the act of climbing, and his face 
turned upward, as if to drink the full gush of splendor. 
But he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble, 

“ It is the Seeker,” whispered Hannah, convulsively 
grasping her husband’s arm. “ Matthew, he is dead.” 

“ The joy of success has killed him,” replied Mat¬ 
thew, trembling violently. “ Or, perhaps, the very 
light of the Great Carbuncle was death! ” 


188 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ The Great Carbuncle,” cried a peevish voice be¬ 
hind them. “ The Great Humbug! If you have 
found it, prithee point it out to me.” 

They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic, 
with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his 
nose, staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now 
at the distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great 
Carbuncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its 
light as if all the scattered clouds were condensed 
about his person. Though its radiance actually threw 
the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he 
turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not 
be convinced that there was the least glimmer there. 

“Where is your Great Humbug?” he repeated. 
“ I challenge you to make me see it! ” 

“ There,” said Matthew, incensed at such perverse 
blindness, and turning the Cynic round towards the 
illuminated cliff. “ Take off those abominable spec¬ 
tacles, and you cannot help seeing it! ” 

Now these colored spectacles probably darkened 
the Cynic’s sight, in at least as great a degree as the 
smoked glasses through which people gaze at an 
eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched 
them from his nose, and fixed a bold stare full upon 
the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. But scarcely 
had he encountered it, when, with a deep, shuddering 
groan, he dropped his head, and pressed both hands 
across his miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was, in 
very truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any 
other light on earth, nor light of heaven itself, for the 
poor Cynic. So long accustomed to view all objects 
through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse 
of brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenom¬ 
enon, striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him 
forever. 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 189 

“ Matthew,” said Hannah, clinging to him, “ let us 
go hence! ” 

Matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down, 
supported her in his arms, while he threw some of the 
thrillingly cold water of the enchanted lake upon her 
face and bosom. It revived her, but could not reno¬ 
vate her courage. 

“ Yes, dearest! ” cried Matthew, pressing her tremu¬ 
lous form to his breast, — “ we will go hence, and 
return to our humble cottage. The blessed sunshine 
and the quiet moonlight shall come through our win¬ 
dow. We will kindle the cheerfid glow of our hearth, 
at eventide, and be happy in its light. But never 
again will we desire more light than all the world may 
share with us.” 

“ No,” said his bride, “ for how could we live by 
day, or sleep by night, in this awful blaze of the Great 
Carbuncle ! ” 

Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a 
draught from the lake, which presented them its waters 
uncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lending their 
guidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered not a word, 
and even stifled his groans in his own most wretched 
heart, they began to descend the mountain. Yet, as 
they left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit’s 
lake, they threw a farewell glance towards the cliff, 
and beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, 
through which the gem burned duskily. 

As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Car- 
ouncle, the legend goes on to tell, that the worshipful 
Master Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the quest as a 
desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake 
himself again to his warehouse, near the town dock, in 
Boston. But, as he passed through the Notch of the 


190 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


mountains, a war party of Indians captured our un¬ 
lucky merchant, and carried him to Montreal, there 
holding him in bondage, till, by the payment of a 
heavy ransom, he had wofully subtracted from his 
hoard of pine-tree shillings. By his long absence, 
moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that, 
for the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver, 
he had seldom a sixpence worth of copper. Doctor 
Cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his laboratory 
with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground 
to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible, 
and burned with the blow-pipe, and published the re¬ 
sult of his experiments in one of the heaviest folios of 
the day. And, for all these purposes, the gem itself 
could not have answered better than the granite. The 
poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a 
great piece of ice, which he found in a sunless chasm 
of the mountains, and swore that it corresponded, in 
all points, with his idea of the Great Carbuncle. The 
critics say, that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of 
the gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. The 
Lord de Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where 
he contented himself with a wax-lighted chandelier, 
and filled, in due course of time, another coffin in the 
ancestral vault. As the funeral torches gleamed within 
that dark receptacle, there was no need of the Great 
Carbuncle to show the vanity of earthly pomp. 

The Cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wan¬ 
dered about the world, a miserable object, and was 
punished with an agonizing desire of light, for the wil¬ 
ful blindness of his former life. The whole night long, 
he would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon 
and stars; he turned his face eastward, at sunrise, as 
duly as a Persian idolater; he made a pilgrimage to 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE. 


191 


Rome, to witness the magnificent illumination of St. 
Peter’s Church; and finally perished in the great fire 
of London, into the midst of which he had thrust him¬ 
self, with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray 
from the blaze that was kindling earth and heaven. 

Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, 
and were fond of telling the legend of the Great Car¬ 
buncle. The tale, however, towards the close of their 
lengthened lives, did not meet with the full credence 
that had been accorded to it by those who remembered 
the ancient lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed that, 
from the hour when two mortals had shown themselves 
so simply wise as to reject a jewel which would have 
dimmed all earthly things, its splendor waned. When 
other pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an 
opaque stone, with particles of mica glittering on its 
surface. There is also a tradition that, as the youth¬ 
ful pair departed, the gem was loosened from the fore¬ 
head of the cliff, and fell into the enchanted lake, and 
that, at noontide, the Seeker’s form may still be seen 
to bend over its quenchless gleam. 

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blaz¬ 
ing as of old, and say that they have caught its radi¬ 
ance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down the 
valley of the Saco. And be it owned that, many a 
mile from the Crystal Hills, I saw a wondrous light 
around their summits, and was lured, by the faith of 
poesy, to be the latest pilgrim of the Great Car-.* 
BUNCLEi 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES . 1 


“But this painter!” cried Walter Ludlow, with 
animation. “ He not only excels in his peculiar art, 
but possesses vast acquirements in all other learning 
and science. He talks Hebrew with Dr. Mather, and 
gives lectures in anatomy to Dr. Boylston. In a word, 
he will meet the best instructed man among us on his 
own ground. Moreover, he is a polished gentleman 
— a citizen of the world — yes, a true cosmopolite; 
for he will speak like a native of each clime and coun¬ 
try of the globe except our own forests, whither he is 
now going. Nor is all this what I most admire in 
him.” 

“Indeed!” said Elinor, who had listened with a 
woman’s interest to the description of such a man. 
“Yet this is admirable enough.” 

“ Surely it is,” replied her lover, “ but far less so 
than his natural gift of adapting himself to every 
variety of character, insomuch that all men — and all 
women too, Elinor — shall find a mirror of themselves 
in this wonderful painter. But the greatest wonder is 
yet to be told.” 

“Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than 
these,” said Elinor, laughing, “ Boston is a perilous 
abode for the poor gentleman. Are you telling me of 
a painter or a wizard ? ” 

1 This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart, related in Dun¬ 
lap’s History of the Arts of Design, — a most entertaining book to the 
general reader, and a deeply interesting one, we should think, to the 
artist. 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


193 


“ In truth,” answered he, “ that question might he 
asked much more seriously than you suppose. They 
say that he paints not merely a man’s features, hut his 
mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments and 
passions, and throws them upon the canvas, like sun¬ 
shine —- or perhaps, in the portraits of dark-souled men, 
like a gleam of infernal fire. It is an awful gift,” 
added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of en¬ 
thusiasm. “ I shall he almost afraid to sit to him.” 

“ Walter, are you in earnest?” exclaimed Elinor. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him 
paint the look which you now wear,” said her lover, 
smiling, though rather perplexed. “ There : it is pass¬ 
ing away now, hut when you spoke you seemed fright¬ 
ened to death, and very sad besides. What were you 
thinking of ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing,” answered Elinor hastily. “ You 
paint my face with your own fantasies. Well, come 
for me to-morrow, and we will visit this wonderful 
artist.” 

But when the young man had departed, it cannot he 
denied that a remarkable expression was again visible 
on the fair and youthful face of his mistress. It was 
a sad and anxious look, little in accordance with what 
should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve 
of wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of 
her heart. 

“A look!” said Elinor to herself. “No wonder 
that it startled him, if it expressed what I sometimes 
feel. I know, by my own experience, how frightful a 
look may be. But it was all fancy. I thought noth¬ 
ing of it at the time — I have seen nothing of it since 
-—I did but dream it.” 

And she busied herself about the embroidery of a 

VOL I. 13 


194 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


ruff, in which she meant that her portrait should be 
taken. 

The painter, of whom they had been speaking, was 
not one of those native artists who, at a later period 
than this, borrowed their colors from the Indians, and 
manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts. 
Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prear¬ 
ranged his destiny, he might have chosen to belong to 
that school without a master, in the hope of being at 
least original, since there were no works of art to imi¬ 
tate nor rules to follow. But he had been born and 
educated in Europe. People said that he had studied 
the grandeur or beauty of conception, and every touch 
of the master hand, in all the most famous pictures, in 
cabinets and galleries, and on the walls of churches, 
till there was nothing more for his powerful mind to 
learn. Art could add nothing to its lessons, but Nat¬ 
ure might. He had therefore visited a world whither 
none of his professional brethren had preceded him, 
to feast his eyes on visible images that were noble 
and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to 
canvas. America was too poor to afford other temp¬ 
tations to an artist of eminence, though many of the 
colonial gentry, on the painter’s arrival, had expressed 
a wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity by 
means of his skill. Whenever such proposals were 
made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant, and 
seemed to look him through and through. If he be¬ 
held only a sleek and comfortable visage, though there 
were a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture and golden 
guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and 
the reward. But if the face were the index of any 
thing uncommon, in thought, sentiment, or experience; 
or if he met a beggar in the street, with a white beard 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


195 


and a furrowed brow; or if sometimes a child hap¬ 
pened to look up and smile, he would exhaust all the 
art on them that he denied to wealth. 

Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the 
painter became an object of general curiosity. If few 
or none could appreciate the technical merit of his 
productions, yet there were points, in regard to which 
the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined 
judgment of the amateur. He watched the effect that 
each picture produced on such untutored beholders, and 
derived profit from their remarks, while they would 
as soon have thought of instructing Nature herself as 
him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, it 
must be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of 
the age and country. Some deemed it an offence 
against the Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous 
mockery of the Creator, to bring into existence such 
lively images of his creatures. Others, frightened at 
the art which could raise phantoms at will, and keep 
the form of the dead among the living, were inclined 
to consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the 
famous Black Man, of old witch times, plotting mis¬ 
chief in a new guise. These foolish fancies were more 
than half believed among the mob. Even in superior 
circles his character was invested with a vague awe, 
partly rising like smoke wreaths from the popular 
superstitions, but chiefly caused by the varied knowl¬ 
edge and talents which he made subservient to his 
profession. 

Being on the eve of marriage, Walter Ludlow and 
Elinor were eager to obtain their portraits, as the first 
of what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long series 
of family pictures. The day after the conversation 
above recorded they visited the painter’s rooms. A 


196 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


servant ushered them into an apartment, where, though 
the artist himself was not visible, there were person¬ 
ages whom they could hardly forbear greeting with 
reverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole assem¬ 
bly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate 
the idea of life and intellect from such striking coun¬ 
terfeits. Several of the portraits were known to them, 
either as distinguished characters of the day or their 
private acquaintances. There was Governor Burnett, 
looking as if he had just received an undutiful com¬ 
munication from the House of Representatives, and 
were inditing a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke hung 
beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and some¬ 
what puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The 
ancient lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from 
the wall, in ruff and farthingale, — an imperious old 
dame, not unsuspected of witchcraft. John Winslow, 
then a very young man, wore the expression of war¬ 
like enterprise, which long afterwards made him a dis¬ 
tinguished general. Their personal friends were rec¬ 
ognized at a glance. In most of the pictures, the 
whole mind and character were brought out on the 
countenance, and concentrated into a single look, so 
that, to speak paradoxically, the originals hardly re¬ 
sembled themselves, so strikingly as the portraits did. 

Among these modern worthies there were two old 
bearded Saints, who had almost vanished into the dark¬ 
ening canvas. There was also a pale, but unfaded 
Madonna, who had perhaps been worshipped in Rome, 
and now regarded the lovers with such a mild and 
holy look that they longed to worship too. 

“How singular a thought,” observed Walter Lud¬ 
low, “that this beautiful face has been beautiful for 
above two hundred years! Oh, if all beauty would en¬ 
dure so well! Do you not envy her, Elinor ? ” 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


197 


“ If earth were heaven, I might,” she replied. 
* But where all things fade, how miserable to be the 
one that could not fade! ” 

“This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly 
scowl, saint though he be,” continued Walter. “He 
troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at us.” 

“ Yes ; but very sorrowfully, methinks,” said Elinor. 

The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, 
sustaining one that had been recently commenced. 
After a little inspection, they began to recognize the 
features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman, 
growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud. 

“ Kind old man ! ” exclaimed Elinor. “ He gazes 
at me as if he were about to utter a word of paternal 
advice.” 

“ And at me,” said Walter, “ as if he were about to 
shake his head and rebuke me for some suspected in¬ 
iquity. But so does the original. I shall never feel 
quite comfortable under his eye till we stand before 
him to be married.” 

They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning, 
beheld the painter, who had been some moments in 
the room, and had listened to a few of their remarks. 
He was a middle-aged man, with a countenance well 
worthy of his own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque, 
though careless arrangement of his rich dress, and, 
perhaps, because his soul dwelt always among painted 
shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait himself. 
His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the 
artist and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures 
had stepped from the canvas to salute them. 

Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the 
painter, explained the object of their visit. While he 
Bpoke, a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure and 


198 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Elinor’s, with so happy an effect that they also seemed 
living pictures of youth and beauty, gladdened by 
bright fortune. The artist was evidently struck. 

“ My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and 
my stay in Boston must be brief,” said he, thought¬ 
fully; then, after an observant glance, he added: 
“ but your wishes shall be gratified, though I disap¬ 
point the Chief Justice and Madam Oliver. I must 
not lose this opportunity, for the sake of painting a 
few ells of broadcloth and brocade.” 

The painter expressed a desire to introduce both 
their portraits into one picture, and represent them 
engaged in some appropriate action. This plan would 
have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected, 
because so large a space of canvas would have been 
unfit for the room which it was intended to decorate. 
Two half-length portraits were therefore fixed upon. 
After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked 
Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influ¬ 
ence over their fates the painter was about to acquire. 

“ The old women of Boston affirm,” continued he, 
“that after he has once got possession of a person’s 
face and figure, he may paint him in any act or situa¬ 
tion whatever— and the picture will be prophetic. Do 
you believe it?” 

“Not quite,” said Elinor, smiling. “Yet if he has 
such magic, there is something so gentle in his man¬ 
ner that I am sure he will use it well.” 

It was the painter’s choice to proceed with both the 
portraits at the same time, assigning as a reason, in 
the mystical language which he sometimes used, that 
the faces threw light upon each other. Accordingly 
he gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, 
and the features of one and the other began to start 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


199 


forth so vividly that it appeared as if his triumphant 
art would actually disengage them from the canvas. 
Amid the rich light and deep shade, they beheld their 
phantom selves. But, though the likeness promised 
to be perfect, they were not quite satisfied with the 
expression ; it seemed more vague than in most of the 
painter’s works. He, however, was satisfied with the 
prospect of success, and being much interested in the 
lovers, employed his leisure moments, unknown to 
them, in making a crayon sketch of their two figures. 
During their sittings, he engaged them in conversation, 
and kindled up their faces with characteristic traits, 
which, though continually varying, it was his purpose 
to combine and fix. At length he announced that at 
their next visit both the portraits would be ready for 
delivery. 

“ If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in 
the few last touches which I meditate,” observed he, 
“ these two pictures will be my very best performances. 
Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects.” 

While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye 
upon them, nor withdrew it till they had reached the 
bottom of the stairs. 

Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes 
stronger hold of the imagination than this affair of 
having a portrait painted. Yet why should it be so? 
The looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons, 
the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces, 
continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts, 
of ourselves, which we glance at, and straightway for¬ 
get them. But we forget them only because they 
vanish. It is the idea of duration — of earthly im¬ 
mortality— that gives such a mysterious interest to 
our own portraits. Walter and Elinor were not in- 


200 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


sensible to this feeling, and hastened to the painter’s 
room, punctually at the appointed hour, to meet those 
pictured shapes which were to be their representatives 
with posterity. The sunshine flashed after them into 
the apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy as they 
closed the door. 

Their eyes were immediately attracted to their por¬ 
traits, which rested against the farthest wall of the 
room. At the first glance, through the dim light and 
the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their nat¬ 
ural attitudes, and with all the air that they recognized 
so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of 
delight. 

“There we stand,” cried Walter, enthusiastically, 
“fixed in sunshine forever! No dark passions can 
gather on our faces ! ” 

“ No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “ no dreary 
change can sadden us.” 

This was said while they were approaching, and 
had yet gained only an imperfect view of the pictures. 
The painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a 
table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visit¬ 
ors to form their own judgment as to his perfected 
labors. At intervals, he sent a glance from beneath 
his deep eyebrows, watching their countenances in 
profile, with his pencil suspended over the sketch. 
They had now stood some moments, each in front of 
the other’s picture, contemplating it with entranced 
attention, but without uttering a word. At length, 
Walter stepped forward — then back — viewing Eli¬ 
nor’s portrait in various lights, and finally spoke. 

“ Is there not a change ? ” said he, in a doubtful 
and meditative tone. “ Yes; the perception of it 
grows more vivid the longer I look. It is certainly 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


201 


the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress — 
the features — all are the same ; and yet something is 
altered.” 

u Is then the picture less like than it was yester- 
day ? ” inquired the painter, now drawing near, with 
irrepressible interest. 

“ The features are perfect, Elinor,” answered Wal¬ 
ter, “ and, at the first glance, the expression seemed 
also hers. But, I could fancy that the portrait has 
changed countenance, while I have been looking at it. 
The eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and 
anxious expression. Nay, it is grief and terror ! Is 
this like Elinor ? ” 

“ Compare the living face with the pictured one,” 
said the painter. 

Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started. 
Motionless and absorbed — fascinated, as it were — in 
contemplation of Walter’s portrait, Elinor’s face had 
assumed precisely the expression of which he had just 
been complaining. Had she practised for whole hours 
before a mirror, she could not have caught the look so 
successfully. Had the picture itself been a mirror, it 
could not have thrown back her present aspect with 
stronger and more melancholy truth. She appeared 
quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist 
and her lover. 

“Elinor,” exclaimed Walter, in amazement, “what 
change has come over you ? ” 

She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed 
gaze, till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her 
notice ; then, with a sudden tremor, she looked from 
the picture to the face of the original. 

“ Do you see no change in your portrait ? ” asked 
she. 


202 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“In mine? — None ! ” replied Walter, examining it. 
“ But let me see ! Yes ; there is a slight change — an 
improvement, I think, in the picture, though none in 
the likeness. It has a livelier expression than yester¬ 
day, as if some bright thought were flashing from the 
eyes, and about to be uttered from the lips. Now 
that I have caught the look, it becomes very decided.” 

While he was intent on these observations, Elinor 
turned to the painter. She regarded him with grief 
and awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy 
and commiseration, though wherefore, she could but 
vaguely guess. 

“ That look! ” whispered she, and shuddered. 
“ How came it there ? ” 

“ Madam,” said the painter, sadly, taking her hand, 
and leading her apart, “ in both these pictures, I have 
painted what I saw. The artist — the true artist — 
must look beneath the exterior. It is his gift — his 
proudest, but often a melancholy one — to see the in¬ 
most soul, and, by a power indefinable even to him¬ 
self, to make it glow or darken upon the canvas, in 
glances that express the thought and sentiment of 
years. Would that I might convince myself of error 
in the present instance ! ” 

They had now approached the table, on which were 
heads in chalk, hands almost as expressive as ordinary 
faces, ivied church towers, thatched cottages, old thun¬ 
der-stricken trees, Oriental and antique costume, and 
all such picturesque vagaries of an artist's idle mo¬ 
ments. Turning them over, with seeming careless¬ 
ness, a crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed. 

“ If I have failed,” continued he — “ if your heart 
does not see itself reflected in your own portrait — if 
you have no secret cause to trust my delineation of the 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


208 


other — it is not yet too late to alter them. I might 
change the action of these figures too. But would it 
influence the event ? ” 

He directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran 
through Elinor’s frame ; a shriek was upon her lips ; 
but she stifled it, with the self-command that becomes 
habitual to all who hide thoughts of fear and anguish 
* within their bosoms. Turning from the table, she 
perceived that Walter had advanced near enough to 
have seen the sketch, though she could not determine 
whether it had caught his eye. 

“ We will not have the pictures altered,” said she, 
hastily. “ If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer 
for the contrast.” 

“ Be it so,” answered the painter, bowing. “ May 
your griefs be such fanciful ones that only your pict¬ 
ure may mourn for them ! For your joys — may they 
be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely 
face till it quite belie my art! ” 

After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pict¬ 
ures formed the two most splendid ornaments of their 
abode. They hung side by side, separated by a nar¬ 
row panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet 
always returning the gaze of the spectator. Trav¬ 
elled gentlemen, who professed a knowledge of such 
subjects, reckoned these among the most admirable 
specimens of modern portraiture; while common ob¬ 
servers compared them with the originals, feature by 
feature, and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. 
But it was on a third class — neither travelled con¬ 
noisseurs nor common observers, but people of natural 
sensibility — that the pictures wrought their strongest 
effect. Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, 
but, becoming interested, would return day after day, 



204 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and study these painted faces like the pages of a mys¬ 
tic volume. Walter Ludlow’s portrait attracted their 
earliest notice. In the absence of himself and his 
bride, they sometimes disputed as to the expression 
which the painter had intended to throw upon the 
features ; all agreeing that there was a look of earnest 
import, though no two explained it alike. There was 
less diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor’s picture. 
They differed, indeed, in their attempts to estimate 
the nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon 
her face, but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from 
the natural temperament of their youthful friend. A 
certain fanciful person announced, as the result of 
much scrutiny, that both these pictures were parts of 
one design, and that the melancholy strength of feel¬ 
ing, in Elinor’s countenance, bore reference to the 
more vivid emotion, or, as he termed it, the wild pas¬ 
sion, in that of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, 
he even began a sketch, in which the action of the two 
figures was to correspond with their mutual expres¬ 
sion. 

It was whispered among friends that, day by day, 
Elinor’s face was assuming a deeper shade of pensive¬ 
ness, which threatened soon to render her too true a 
counterpart of her melancholy picture. Walter, on the 
other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which 
the painter had given him on the canvas, became 
reserved and downcast, with no outward flashes of 
emotion, however it might be smouldering within. In 
course of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of pur¬ 
ple silk, wrought with flowers and fringed with heavy 
golden tassels, before the pictures, under pretence that 
the dust would tarnish their hues, or the light dim 
them. It was enough. Her visitors felt, that the 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 205 

massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn, nor 
the portraits mentioned in her presence. 

Time wore on; and the painter came again. He 
had been far enough to the north to see the silver cas¬ 
cade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast 
round of cloud and forest from the summit of New 
England’s loftiest mountain. But he did not profane 
that scene by the mockery of his art. He had also 
lain in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George, making 
his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, till 
not a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his 
recollection. He had gone with the Indian hunters to 
Niagara, and there, again, had flung his hopeless pencil 
down the precijnce, feeling that he could as soon paint 
the roar, as aught else that goes to make up the won¬ 
drous cataract. In truth, it was seldom his impulse to 
copy natural scenery, except as a framework for the 
delineations of the human form and face, instinct with 
thought, passion, or suffering. With store of such his 
adventurous ramble had enriched him: the stern dig¬ 
nity of Indian chiefs; the dusky loveliness of In¬ 
dian girls ; the domestic life of wigwams ; the stealthy 
march; the battle beneath gloomy pine-trees; the 
frontier fortress with its garrison ; the anomaly of the 
old French partisan, bred in courts, but grown gray in 
shaggy deserts; such were the scenes and portraits 
that he had sketched. The glow of perilous moments ; 
flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce power, — 
love, hate, grief, frenzy; in a word, all the worn-out 
heart of the old earth had been revealed to him under 
a new form. His portfolio was filled with graphic 
illustrations of the volume of his memory, which genius 
would transmute into its own substance, and imbue 
with immortality. He felt that the deep wisdom in 
his art, which he had sought so far, was found. 


206 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


But amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the 
forest or its overwhelming peacefulness, still there had 
been two phantoms, the companions of his way. Like 
all other men around whom an engrossing purpose 
wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of 
human kind. He had no aim — no pleasure — no 
sympathies — but what were ultimately connected with 
his art. Though gentle in manner and upright in in¬ 
tent and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his 
heart was cold; no living creature could be brought 
near enough to keep him warm. For these two beings, 
however, he had felt, in its greatest intensity, the sort 
of interest which always allied him to the subjects of 
his pencil. He had pried into their souls with his 
keenest insight, and pictured the result upon their 
features with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall 
short of that standard which no genius ever reached, 
his own severe conception. He had caught from the 
duskiness of the future — at least, so he fancied — a 
fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the 
portraits. So much of himself — of his imagination 
and all other powers — had been lavished on the study 
of Walter and Elinor, that he almost regarded them 
as creations of his own, like the thousands with which 
he had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did 
they flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on 
the mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of 
the lake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. They 
haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life, 
nor pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of por¬ 
traits, each with the unalterable expression which his 
magic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. He 
could not recross the Atlantic till he had again beheld 
the originals of those airy pictures. 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


20T 


“ O glorious Art! ” thus mused the enthusiastic 
painter as he trod the street, “thou art the image 
of the Creator’s own. The innumerable forms, that 
wander in nothingness, start into being at thy beck. 
The dead live again. Thou recallest them to their old 
scenes, and-givest their gray shadows the lustre of a bet¬ 
ter life, at once earthly and immortal. Thou snatchest 
back the fleeting moments of History. With thee 
there is no Past, for, at thy touch, all that is great 
becomes forever present; and illustrious men live 
through long ages, in the visible performance of the 
very deeds which made them what they are. O potent 
Art! as thou bringest the faintly revealed Past to 
stand in that narrow strip of sunlight, which we call 
Now, canst thou summon the shrouded Future to meet 
her there ? Have I not achieved it ? Am I not thy 
Prophet ? ” 

Tlius, with a proud, yet melancholy fervor, did he 
almost cry aloud, as he passed through the toilsome 
street, among people that knew not of his reveries, nor 
could understand nor care for them. It is not good for 
man to cherish a solitary ambition. Unless there be 
those around him by whose example he may regulate 
himself, his thoughts, desires, and hopes will become 
extravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps the real¬ 
ity, of a madman. Heading other bosoms with an 
acuteness almost preternatural, the painter failed to 
see the disorder of his own. 

“And this should be the house,” said he, looking up 
and down the front, before he knocked. “ Heaven 
help my brains! That picture ! Methinks it will 
never vanish. Whether I look at the windows or the 
door, there it is framed within them, painted strongly, 
and glowing in the richest tints — the faces of the 
portraits — the figures and action of the sketch! ” 


208 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


He knocked. 

“The Portraits! Are they within?” inquired he 
of the domestic ; then recollecting himself — u your 
master and mistress ! Are they at home ? ” 

“ They are, sir,” said the servant, adding, as he no¬ 
ticed that picturesque aspect of which the painter 
could never divest himself, “and the Portraits too! ” 

The guest was admitted into a parlor, communi¬ 
cating by a central door with an interior room of the 
same size. As the first apartment was empty, he 
passed to the entrance of the second, within which 
his eyes were greeted by those living personages, as 
well as their pictured representatives, who had long 
been the objects of so singular an interest. He invol¬ 
untarily paused on the threshold. 

They had not perceived his approach. Walter and 
Elinor were standing before the portraits, whence the 
former had just flung back the rich and voluminous 
folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel 
with one hand, while the other grasped that of his 
bride. The pictures, concealed for months, gleamed 
forth again in undiminished splendor, appearing to 
throw a sombre light across the room, rather than to 
be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor 
had been almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next 
a gentle sorrow, had successively dwelt upon her coun¬ 
tenance, deepening, with the lapse of tune, into a quiet 
anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made 
it the very expression of the portrait. Walter’s face 
was moody and dull, or animated only by fitful flashes, 
which left a heavier darkness for their momentary 
illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait, 
and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which 
he finally stood absorbed. 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES. 


209 


The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny 
approaching behind him, on its progress towards its 
victims. A strange thought darted into his mind. 
Was not his own the form in which that destiny had 
embodied itself, and he a chief agent of the coming 
evil which he had foreshadowed ? 

Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, 
communing with it as with his own heart, and aban¬ 
doning himself to the spell of evil influence that the 
painter had cast upon the features. Gradually his 
eyes kindled ; while as Elinor watched the increasing 
wildness of his face, her own assumed a look of ter¬ 
ror ; and when at last he turned upon her, the resem¬ 
blance of both to their portraits was complete. 

“ Our fate is upon us ! ” howled Walter. “ Die! ” 

Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sink¬ 
ing to the ground, and aimed it at her bosom. In the 
action, and in the look and attitude of each, the painter 
beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture, with all 
its tremendous coloring, was finished. 

“ Hold, madman ! ” cried he, sternly. 

He had advanced from the door, and interposed 
himself between the wretched beings, with the same 
sense of power to regulate their destiny as to alter a 
scene upon the canvas. He stood like a magician, 
controlling the phantoms which he had evoked. 

“ What! ” muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed 
from fierce excitement into silent gloom. “ Does Fate 
impede its own decree?” 

“Wretched lady!” said the painter, “did I not 
warn you ? ” 

“ You did,” replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror 

gave place to the quiet grief which it had disturbed. 

u But — I loved him ! ” 

14 


YOL. I. 


210 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Is there not a deep moral in the tale ? Could the 
result of one, or all our deeds, be shadowed forth and 
set before us, some would call it Fate, and hurry on¬ 
ward, others be swept along by their passionate de¬ 
sires, and none be turned aside by the Prophetic 
Pictures. 


DAVID SWAN. 


A FANTASY. 

We can be but partially acquainted even with the 
events which actually influence our course through 
life, and our final destiny. There are innumerable 
other events — if such they may be called—which 
come close upon us, yet pass away without actual 
results, or even betraying their near approach, by the 
reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. 
Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, 
life would be too full of hope and fear, exultation or 
disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true 
serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page 
from the secret history of David Swan. 

We have nothing to do with David until we find 
him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his 
native place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a 
small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him be¬ 
hind the counter. Be it enough to say that he was a 
native of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents, 
and had received an ordinary school education, with a 
classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After 
journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a 
summer’s day, his weariness and the increasing heat 
determined him to sit down in the first convenient 
shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach. 
As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared 
a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the 


212 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring that it seemed 
never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David 
Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty 
lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing 
his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons, 
tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sun¬ 
beams could not reach him ; the dust did not yet rise 
from the road after the heavy rain of yesterday; and 
his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed 
of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him ; 
the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky over¬ 
head ; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams 
within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are 
to relate events which he did not dream of. 

While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other peo¬ 
ple were wide awake, and passed to and fro, afoot, on 
horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny 
road by his bedchamber. Some looked neither to the 
right hand nor the left, and knew not that he was 
there; some merely glanced that way, without admit¬ 
ting the slumberer among their busy thoughts; some 
laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, 
whose hearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected 
their venomous superfluity on David Swan. A middle- 
aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her 
head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the 
young fellow looked charming in his sleep. A tem¬ 
perance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor David 
into the texture of his evening’s discourse, as an awful 
instance of dead drunkenness by the roadside. But 
censure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference were 
all one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan. 

He had slept only a few moments when a brown 
carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled 


DAVID SWAN. 


213 


easily along, and was brought to a stand-still nearly 
in front of David’s resting-place. A linchpin had 
fallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. 
The damage was slight, and occasioned merely a mo¬ 
mentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, 
who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While 
the coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel, 
the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath 
the maple-trees, and there espied the bubbling fount¬ 
ain, and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed 
with the awe which the humblest sleeper usually sheds 
around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout 
would allow; and his spouse took good heed not to 
rustle her silk gown, lest David should start up all of 
a sudden. 

“ How soundly he sleeps ! ” whispered the old gen¬ 
tleman. “From what a depth he draws that easy 
breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without an 
opiate, would be worth more to me than half my in¬ 
come ; for it would suppose health and an untroubled 
mind.’* 

“And youth, besides,” said the lady. “Healthy 
and quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no 
more like his than our wakefulness.” 

The longer they looked the more did this elderly 
couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom 
the wayside and the maple shade were as a secret 
chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains 
brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam 
glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to 
twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And hav¬ 
ing done this little act of kindness, she began to feel 
like a mother to him. 

“Providence seems to have laid him here,” whis 


214 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


pered she to her husband, “and to have brought us 
hither to find him, after our disappointment in our 
cousin’s son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our 
departed Henry. Shall we waken him ? ” 

“ To what purpose? ” said the merchant, hesitating. 
“We know nothing of the youth’s character.” 

“That open countenance! ” replied his wife, in the 
same hushed voice, yet earnestly. “This innocent 
sleep! ” 

While these whispers were passing, the sleeper’s 
heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, 
nor his features betray the least token of interest. 
Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let 
fall a burden of gold. The old merchant had lost his 
only son, and had no heir to his wealth except a dis¬ 
tant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. 
In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things 
than to act the magician, and awaken a young man to 
splendor who fell asleep in poverty. 

“Shall we not waken him?” repeated the lady, 
persuasively. 

“The coach is ready, sir,” said the servant, behind. 

The old couple started, reddened, and hurried 
away, mutually wondering that they should ever have 
dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. The 
merchant threw himself back in the carriage, and oc¬ 
cupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylum 
for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David 
Swan enjoyed his nap. 

The carriage could not have gone above a mile or 
two, when a pretty young girl came along, with a 
tripping pace, which showed precisely how her little 
heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this 
merry kind of motion that caused—is there any harm 


DAVID SWAN. 


215 


in saying it ? — her garter to slip its knot. Conscious 
that the silken girth — if silk it were — was relaxing 
its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple- 
trees, and there found a young man asleep by the 
spring! Blushing as red as any rose that she should 
have intruded into a gentleman’s bedchamber, and for 
such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape 
on tiptoe. But there was peril near the sleeper. A 
monster of a bee had been wandering overhead—* 
buzz, buzz, buzz — now among the leaves, now flashing 
through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the 
dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on 
the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is some¬ 
times deadly. As free hearted as she was innocent, 
the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, 
brushed him soundly, and drove him from beneath the 
maple shade. How sweet a picture! This good deed 
accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper 
blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger for 
whom she had been battling with a dragon in the 
air. 

“ He is handsome! ” thought she, and blushed redder 
yet. 

How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so 
strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, 
it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the 
girl among its phantoms ? Why, at least, did no smile 
of welcome brighten upon his face ? She was come, 
the maid whose soul, according to the old and beauti¬ 
ful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, 
in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to 
meet. Her, only, could he love with a perfect love; 
him, only, could she receive into the depths of her 
heart ; and now her image was faintly blushing in the 


216 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


fountain, by his side; should it pass away, its happy 
lustre would never gleam upon his life again. 

“ How sound he sleeps! ” murmured the girl. 

She departed, but did not trip along the road so 
lightly as when she came. 

Now, this girl’s father was a thriving country mer¬ 
chant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that 
identical time, to be looking out for just such a young 
man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside 
acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become 
the father’s clerk, and all else in natural succession. 
So here, again, had good fortune — the best of for¬ 
tunes — stolen so near that her garments brushed 
against him ; and he knew nothing of the matter. 

The girl was hardly out of sight when two men 
turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark 
faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down 
aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, 
yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of 
rascals who got their living by whatever the devil 
sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, 
had staked the joint profits of their next piece of 
villany on a game of cards, which was to have been 
decided here under the trees. But, finding David 
asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to 
his fellow, — 

“ Hist! — Do you see that bundle under his head ? ” 

The other villain nodded, winked, and leered. 

“ I ’ll bet you a horn of brandy,” said the first, “ that 
the chap has either a pocket-book, or a snug little 
hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his 
shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in .his 
pantaloons pocket.” 

“ But how if he wakes ? ” said the other. 


DAVID SWAN. 


217 


His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed 
to the handle of a dirk, and nodded. 

“ So be it! ” muttered the second villain. 

They approached the unconscious David, and, while 
one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other 
began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their 
two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and 
fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough 
to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. 
Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, 
even they would hardly have known themselves as 
reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a 
more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother’s 
breast. 

“ I must take away the bundle,” whispered one. 

“ If he stirs, I ’ll strike,” muttered the other. 

But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the 
ground, came in beneath the maple-trees, and gazed 
alternately at each of these wicked men, and then 
at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the 
fountain. 

“ Pshaw! ” said one villain. “ We can do nothing 
now. The dog’s master must be close behind.” 

“ Let’s take a drink and be off,” said the other. 

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon 
into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not 
of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was 
a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed 
upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, 
and left the spot, with so many jests, and such 
laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that 
they might be said to have gone on their way re« 
joicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole 
affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had 


i 



218 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


written down the crime of murder against their souls, 
in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, 
he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow 
of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of 
renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn. 

He slept, hut no longer so quietly as at first. An 
hour’s repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, 
the weariness with which many hours of toil had bur* 
dened it. Now he stirred — now, moved his lips, 
without a sound — now, talked, in an inward tone, to 
the noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of 
wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, 
until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David’s 
slumber — and there was the stage-coach. He started 
up with all his ideas about him. 

“Halloo, driver ! — Take a passenger?” shouted 
he. 

“ Room on top ! ” answered the driver. 

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily 
towards Boston, without so much as a parting glance 
at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew 
not that a phantom of W ealth had thrown a golden 
hue upon its waters — nor that one of Love had 
sighed softly to their murmur — nor that one of Death 
had threatened to crimson them with his blood — all, 
in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleep¬ 
ing or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of 
the strange things that almost happen. Does it not 
argue a superintending Providence that, while view¬ 
less and unexpected events thrust themselves contin¬ 
ually athwart our path, there should still be regularity 
enough in mortal life to render foresight even par 
tially available ? 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small 
Here I stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at a 
dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me 
still. Oh that I could soar up into the very zenith, 
where man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and 
where the ethereal azure melts away from the eye, 
and appears only a deepened shade of nothingness ! 
And yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. 
What clouds are gathering in the golden west, with 
direful intent against the brightness and the warmth 
of this summer afternoon! They are ponderous air 
ships, black as death, and freighted with the tempest; 
and at intervals their thunder, the signal guns of that 
unearthly squadron, rolls distant along the deep of 
heaven. These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor — me- 
thinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day 
long ! — seem scattered here and there for the repose 
of tired pilgrims through the sky. Perhaps — for 
who can tell ? — beautiful spirits are disporting them¬ 
selves there, and will bless my mortal eye with the 
brief appearance of their curly locks of golden light, 
and laughing faces, fair and faint as the people of a 
rosy dream. Or, where the floating mass so imper¬ 
fectly obstructs the color of the firmament, a slender 
foot and fairy limb, resting too heavily upon the frail 
support, may be thrust through, and suddenly with¬ 
drawn, while longing fancy follows them in vain, 
bonder again is an airy archipelago, where the sun 


220 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


beams love to linger in their journeyings through 
space. Every one of those little clouds has been 
dipped and steeped in radiance, which the slightest 
pressure might disengage in silvery profusion, like 
water wrung from a sea-maid’s hair. Bright they are 
as a young man’s visions, and, like them, would be 
realized in chillness, obscurity, and tears. I will look 
on them no more. 

In three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is 
ihis spire, I discern cultivated fields, villages, white 
country seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid 
lakes, and here and there a rising ground, that would 
fain be termed a hill. On the fourth side is the sea, 
stretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue 
and calm, except where the passing anger of a shadow 
flits across its surface, and is gone. Hitherward, a 
broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge 
of the harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town; and 
over it am I, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. 
Oh that the multitude of chimneys could speak, like 
those of Madrid, and betray, in smoky whispers, the 
secrets of all who, since their first foundation, have 
assembled at the hearths within ! Oh that the Limp¬ 
ing Devil of Le Sage would perch beside me here, 
extend his wand over this contiguity of roofs, uncover 
every chamber, and make me familiar with their in¬ 
habitants! The most desirable mode of existence 
might be that of a spiritualized Paul Pry, hovering 
invisible round man and woman, witnessing their deeds, 
searching into their hearts, borrowing brightness from 
their felicity and shade from their sorrow, and retain¬ 
ing no emotion peculiar to himself. But none of these 
things are possible ; and if I would know the interior 
of brick walls, or the mystery of human bosoms, I can 
but guess. 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE . 


221 


Yonder is a fair street, extending north and south. 
The stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of 
verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends from 
every door to the pavement. Ornamental trees — the 
broad-leafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bend¬ 
ing, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others 
whereof I know not the names — grow thrivingly 
among brick and stone. The oblique rays of the sun 
are intercepted by these green citizens, and by the 
houses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and 
pleasant walk. On its whole extent there is now but a 
single passenger, advancing from the upper end; and 
he, unless distance and the medium of a pocket spy¬ 
glass do him more than justice, is a fine young man 
of twenty. He saunters slowly forward, slapping his 
left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes 
upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to 
throw a glance before him. Certainly, he has a pen¬ 
sive air. Is he in doubt, or in debt ? Is he, if the 
question be allowable, in love ? Does he strive to be 
melancholy and gentleman-like? Or, is he merely 
overcome by the heat ? But I bid him farewell for 
the present. The door of one of the houses — an aris¬ 
tocratic edifice, with curtains of purple and gold wav¬ 
ing from the windows, is now opened, and down the 
steps come two ladies, swinging their parasols, and 
lightly arrayed for a summer ramble. Both are young, 
both are pretty, but methinks the left-hand lass is the 
fairer of the twain; and, though she be so serious at 
this moment, I could swear that there is a treasure of 
gentle fun within her. They stand talking a little 
while upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street. 
Meantime, as their faces are now turned from me, I 
may look elsewhere. 


222 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Upon that wharf, and down the corresponding 
street, is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which I 
have just noticed. Business evidently has its centre 
there, and many a man is wasting the summer after¬ 
noon in labor and anxiety, in losing riches or in gain¬ 
ing them, when he would be wiser to flee away to some 
pleasant country village, or shaded lake in the forest, 
or wild and cool sea-beach. I see vessels unlading at 
the wharf, and precious merchandise strewn upon the 
ground, abundantly as at the bottom of the sea, that 
market whence no goods return, and where there is 
no captain nor supercargo to render an account of 
sales. Here, the clerks are diligent with their paper 
and pencils, and sailors ply the block and tackle that 
hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with cries, 
long drawn and roughly melodious, till the bales and 
puncheons ascend to upper air. At a little distance a 
group of gentlemen are assembled round the door of 
a warehouse. Grave seniors be they, and I would 
wager — if it were safe in these times to be responsi¬ 
ble for any one — that the least eminent among them 
might vie with old Vicentio, that incomparable traf¬ 
ficker of Pisa. I can even select the wealthiest of the 
company. It is the elderly personage, in somewhat 
rusty black, with powdered hair, the superfluous white¬ 
ness of which is visible upon the cape of his coat. 
His twenty ships are wafted on some of their many 
courses by every breeze that blows, and his name — I 
will venture to say, though I know it not — is a famil¬ 
iar sound among the far separated merchants of 
Europe and the Indies. 

But I bestow too much of my attention in this quar¬ 
ter. On looking again to the long and shady walk, I 
perceive that the two fair girls have encountered the 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


223 


young man. After a sort of shyness in the recognition, 
he turns back with them. Moreover, he has sanctioned 
my taste in regard to his companions by placing him¬ 
self on the inner side of the pavement, nearest the 
Venus to whom I — enacting, on a steeple top, the 
part of Paris on the top of Ida — adjudged the golden 
apple. 

In two streets, converging at right angles towards 
my watchtower, I distinguish three different proces¬ 
sions. One is a proud array of voluntary soldiers, in 
bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence I 
look down, the painted veterans that garrison the win¬ 
dows of a toyshop. And yet, it stirs my heart; their 
regular advance, their nodding plumes, the sunflash on 
their bayonets and musket barrels, the roll of their 
drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and anon 
piercing through — these things have wakened a war¬ 
like fire, peaceful though I be. Close to their rear 
marches a battalion of school-boys, ranged in crooked 
and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping a 
harsh and miripe clatter from an instrument of tin, 
and ridiculously aping the intricate manoeuvres of the 
foremost band. Nevertheless, as slight differences are 
scarcely perceptible from a church spire, one might be 
tempted to ask, “ Which are the boys ? ” —or rather, 
“ Which the men ? ” But, leaving these, let us turn 
to the third procession, which, though sadder in out¬ 
ward show, may excite identical reflections in the 
thoughtful mind. It is a funeral. A hearse, drawn 
by a black and bony steed, and covered by a dusty 
pall; two or three coaches rumbling over the stones, 
their drivers half asleep; a dozen couple of careless 
mourners in their every-day attire; such was not the 
fashion of our fathers, when they carried a friend to 


224 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


his grave. There is now no doleful clang of the bell 
to proclaim sorrow to the town. Was the King of 
Terrors more awful in those days than in our own, 
that wisdom and philosophy have been able to produce 
this change? Not so. Here is a proof that he retains 
his proper majesty. The military men and the mili¬ 
tary boys are wheeling round the corner, and meet 
the funeral full in the face. Immediately the drum is 
silent, all but the tap that regulates each simultaneous 
footfall. The soldiers yield the path to the dusty 
hearse and unpretending train, and the children quit 
their ranks, and cluster on the sidewalks, with timo¬ 
rous and instinctive curiosity. The mourners enter the 
churchyard at the base of the steeple, and pause by an 
open grave among the burial stones; the lightning 
glimmers on them as they lower down the coffin, and 
the thunder rattles heavily while they throw the earth 
upon its lid. Yerily, the shower is near, and I trem¬ 
ble for the young man and the girls, who have now 
disappeared from the long and shady street. 

How various are the situations of the people covered 
by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the 
events at this moment befalling them ! The new born, 
the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent 
dead, are in the chambers of these many mansions. 
The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the 
desperate, dwell together within the circle of my 
glance. In some of the houses over which my eyes 
roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are 
still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue, — 
guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the im¬ 
pending deed might be averted ; guilt is done, and the 
criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad 
thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 


225 


give them distinctness, they would make their way in 
eloquence. Lo ! the raindrops are descending. 

The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over 
all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in 
one unbroken mass upon the earth. At intervals, the 
lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, 
disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling 
slowly after its twin-born flame. A strong wind has 
sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and 
raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the ap¬ 
proaching storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the fu¬ 
neral has already vanished like its dead, and all people 
hurry homeward — all that have a home ; while a few 
lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at 
their leisure. In a narrow lane, which communicates 
with the shady street, I discern the rich old mer¬ 
chant, putting himself to the top of his speed, lest the 
rain shoidd convert his hair powder to a paste. Un¬ 
happy gentleman! By the slow vehemence and pain¬ 
ful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but too 
evident that Podagra has left its thrilling tenderness 
in his great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapid pace, 
come three other of my acquaintance, the two pretty 
girls and the young man, unseasonably interrupted in 
their walk. Their footsteps are supported by the risen 
dust, — the wind lends them its velocity, — they fly 
like three sea-birds driven landward by the tempestu¬ 
ous breeze. The ladies would not thus rival Atalanta 
if they but knew that any one were at leisure to ob¬ 
serve them. Ah ! as they hasten onward, laughing in 
the angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe has 
chanced. At the corner where the narrow lane enters 
into the street, they come plump against the old mer¬ 
chant, whose tortoise motion has just brought him to 

VOL. I. 15 


226 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


that point. He likes not the sweet encounter; the 
darkness of the whole air gathers speedily upon his 
visage, and there is a pause on both sides. Finally, 
he thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes 
an arm of each of the two girls, and plods onward, 
like a magician with a prize of captive fairies. All 
this is easy to be understood. How disconsolate the 
poor lover stands ! regardless of the rain that threatens 
an exceeding damage to his well-fashioned habiliments, 
till he catches a backward glance of mirth from a 
bright eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it 
conveys. 

The old man and his daughters are safely housed, 
and now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwell¬ 
ing I perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they 
shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous 
shower, and shrinking away from the quick fiery 
glare. The large drops descend with force upon the 
slated roofs, and rise again in smoke. There is a 
rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and 
muddy streams bubble majestically along the pave¬ 
ment, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and 
disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa 
sink. I love not my station here aloft, in the midst 
of the tumult which I am powerless to direct or quell, 
with the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the 
thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. 
I will descend. Yet let me give another glance to the 
sea, where the foam breaks out in long white lines 
upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far 
distant points, like snowy mountain tops in the eddies 
of a flood ; and let me look once more at the green 
plain, and little hills of the country, over which the 
giant of the storm is striding in robes of mist, and at 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE . 


227 


the town, whose obscured and desolate streets might 
beseem a city of the dead ; and turning a single mo¬ 
ment to the sky, now gloomy as an author’s prospects, 
I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But 
stay! A little speck of azure has widened in the 
western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage, and 
go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder 
darkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory 
of another world and the trouble and tears of this, 
brightens forth the Rainbow! 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 


In those strange old times, when fantastic dreams 
and madmen’s reveries were realized among the 
actual circumstances of life, two persons met together 
at an appointed hour and place. One was a lady, 
graceful in form and fair of feature, though pale and 
troubled, and smitten with an untimely blight in what 
should have been the fullest bloom of her years ; the 
other was an ancient and meanly-dressed woman, of 
ill-favored aspect, and so withered, shrunken, and de¬ 
crepit, that even the space since she began to ^ decay 
must have exceeded the ordinary term of human 
existence. In the spot where they encountered, no 
mortal could observe them. Three little hills stood 
near each other, and down in the midst of them sunk 
a hollow basin, almost mathematically circular, two or 
three hundred feet in breadth, and of such depth that 
a stately cedar might but just be visible above the 
sides. Dwarf pines were numerous upon the hills, 
and partly fringed the outer verge of the intermediate 
hollow, within which there was nothing but the brown 
grass of October, and here and there a tree trunk that 
had fallen long ago, and lay mouldering with no 
green successor from its roots. One of these masses 
of decaying wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested 
close beside a pool of green and sluggish water at the 
bottom of the basin. Such scenes as this (so gray 
tradition tells) were once the resort of the Power of 
Evil and his plighted subjects ; and here, at midnight 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 229 

or on the dim verge of evening, they were said to 
stand round the mantling pool, disturbing its putrid 
waters in the performance of an impious baptismal 
rite. The chill beauty of an autumnal sunset was 
now gilding the three hill-tops, whence a paler tint 
stole down their sides into the hollow. 

“ Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass,” said 
the aged crone, “ according as thou hast desired. Say 
quickly what thou wouldst have of me, for there is but 
a short hour that we may tarry here.” 

As the old withered woman spoke, a smile glim¬ 
mered on her countenance, like lamplight on the wall 
of a sepulchre. The lady trembled, and cast her eyes 
upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to 
return with her purpose unaccomplished. But it was 
not so ordained. 

“ I am a stranger in this land, as you know,” said 
she at length. “ Whence I come it matters not; but 
I have left those behind me with whom my fate was 
intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off for¬ 
ever. There is a weight in my bosom that I cannot 
away with, and I have come hither to inquire of their 
welfare.” 

“ And who is there by this green pool that can 
bring thee news from the ends of the earth ? ” cried 
the old woman, peering into the lady’s face. “ Not 
from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet, be 
thou bold, and the daylight shall not pass away from 
yonder hill-top before thy wish be granted.” 

64 1 will do your bidding though I die,” replied the 
lady desperately. 

The old woman seated herself on the trunk of the 
fallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her 
gray locks, and beckoned her companion to draw near. 


230 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ Kneel down,” she said, “ and lay your forehead 
on my knees.” 

She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had 
long been kindling burned fiercely up within her. 
As she knelt down, the border of her garment was 
dipped into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old 
woman’s knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the 
lady’s face, so that she was in darkness. Then she 
heard the muttered words of prayer, in the midst of 
which she started, and would have arisen. 

“ Let me flee, — let me flee and hide myself, that 
they may not look upon me! ” she cried. But, with 
returning recollection, she hushed herself, and was 
still as death. 

For it seemed as if other voices — familiar in in¬ 
fancy, and unforgotten through many wanderings, and 
in all the vicissitudes of her heart and fortune — 
were mingling with the accents of the prayer. At 
first the words were faint and indistinct, not rendered 
so by distance, but rather resembling the dim pages 
of a book which we strive to read by an imperfect and 
gradually brightening light. In such a manner, as 
the prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon 
the ear; till at length the petition ended, and the con¬ 
versation of an aged man, and of a woman broken 
and decayed like himself, became distinctly audible to 
the lady as she knelt. But those strangers appeared 
not to stand in the hollow depth between the three 
hills. Their voices were encompassed and reechoed 
by the walls of a chamber, the windows of which were 
rattling in the breeze ; the regular vibration of a clock, 
the crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers 
as they fell among the ashes, rendered the scene al¬ 
most as vivid as if painted to the eye. By a melan- 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 231 


choly hearth sat these two old people, the man calmly 
despondent, the woman querulous and tearful, and 
their words were all of sorrow. They spoke of a 
daughter, a wanderer they knew not where, bearing 
dishonor along with her, and leaving shame and afflic¬ 
tion to bring their gray heads to the grave. They 
alluded also to other and more recent woe, but in the 
midst of their talk their voices seemed to melt into the 
sound of the wind sweeping mournfully among the au¬ 
tumn leaves ; and when the lady lifted her eyes, there 
was she kneeling in the hollow between three hills. 

“ A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple 
have of it,” remarked the old woman, smiling in the 
lady’s face. 

“ And did you also hear them ? ” exclaimed she, a 
sense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her 
agony and fear. 

“ Yea; and we have yet more to hear,” replied the 
old woman. “ Wherefore, cover thy face quickly.” 

Again the withered hag poured forth the monoto¬ 
nous words of a prayer that was not meant to be ac¬ 
ceptable in heaven ; and soon, in the pauses of her 
breath, strange murmurings began to thicken, grad¬ 
ually increasing so as to drown and overpower the 
charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced through 
the obscurity of sound, and were succeeded by the 
singing of sweet female voices, which, in their turn, 
gave way to a wild roar of laughter, broken suddenly 
by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly 
confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. Chains 
were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats, 
and the scourge resounded at their command. All 
these noises deepened and became substantial to the 
listener’s ear, till she could distinguish every soft and 


232 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


dreamy accent of the love songs that died causelessly 
into funeral hymns. She shuddered at the unpro¬ 
voked wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous 
kindling of flame, and she grew faint at the fearful 
merriment raging miserably around her. In the 
midst of this wild scene, where unbound passions 
jostled each other in a drunken career, there was one 
solemn voice of a man, and a manly and melodious 
voice it might once have been. He went to and fro 
continually, and his feet somided upon the floor. In 
each member of that frenzied company, whose own 
burning thoughts had become their exclusive world, 
he sought an auditor for the story of his individual 
wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as his 
reward of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman’s per¬ 
fidy, of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of a 
home and heart made desolate. Even as he went on, 
the shout, the laugh, the shriek, the sob, rose up in 
unison, till they changed into the hollow, fitful, and 
uneven sound of the wind, as it fought among the pine- 
trees on those three lonely hills. The lady looked up, 
and there was the withered woman smiling in her face. 

“ Couldst thou have thought there were such merry 
times in a mad-house ? ” inquired the latter. 

“ True, true,” said the lady to herself; “ there is 
mirth within its walls, but misery, misery without.” 

“ Wouldst thou hear more ? ” demanded the old 
woman. 

“ There is one other voice I would fain listen to 
again,” replied the lady, faintly. 

“ Then, lay down thy head speedily upon my knees, 
that thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be 
past.” 

The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS. 233 


the hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and the 
pool, as if sombre night were rising thence to over¬ 
spread the world. Again that evil woman began to 
weave her spell. Long did it proceed unanswered, till 
the knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals of 
her words, like a clang that had travelled far over 
valley and rising ground, and was just ready to die in 
the air. The lady shook upon her companion’s knees 
as she heard that boding sound. Stronger it grew 
and sadder, and deepened into the tone of a death 
bell, knolling dolefully from some ivy-mantled tower, 
and bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cot¬ 
tage, to the hall, and to the solitary wayfarer, that all 
might weep for the doom appointed in turn to them. 
Then came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly 
on, as of mourners with a coffin, their garments trail¬ 
ing on the ground, so that the ear could measure the 
length of their melancholy array. Before them went 
the priest, reading the burial service, while the leaves 
of his book were rustling in the breeze. And though 
no voice but his was heard to speak aloud, still there 
were revilings and anathemas, whispered but distinct, 
from women and from men, breathed against the 
daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of her par¬ 
ents, — the wife who had betrayed the trusting fond¬ 
ness of her husband, — the mother who had sinned 
against natural affection, and left her child to die. 
The sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away 
like a thin vapor, and the wind, that just before had 
seemed to shake the coffin pall, moaned sadly round 
the verge of the Hollow between three Hills. But 
when the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she 
lifted not her head. 

“ Here has been a sweet hour’s sport! ” said the 
withered crone, chuckling to herself. 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 


A SKETCH OF TRANSITORY LIFE. 

Methinks, for a person whose instinct bids him 
rather to pore over the current of life than to plunge 
into its tumultuous waves, no undesirable retreat were 
a toll-house beside some thronged thoroughfare of the 
land. In youth, perhaps, it is good for the observer 
to run about the earth — to leave the track of his foot¬ 
steps far and wide — to mingle himself with the action 
of numberless vicissitudes; and, finally, in some calm 
solitude, to feed a musing spirit on all that he has seen 
and felt. But there are natures too indolent, or too 
sensitive, to endure the dust, the sunshine, or the rain, 
the turmoil of moral and physical elements, to which 
all the wayfarers of the world expose themselves. For 
such a man, how pleasant a miracle, could life be 
made to roll its variegated length by the threshold of 
his own hermitage, and the great globe, as it were, 
perform its revolutions and shift its thousand scenes 
before his eyes without whirling him onward in its 
course. If any mortal be favored with a lot analogous 
to this, it is the toll-gatherer. So, at least, have I 
often fancied, while lounging on a bench at the door 
of a small square edifice, which stands between shore 
and shore in the midst of a long bridge. Beneath the 
timbers ebbs and flows an arm of the sea; while above, 
like the life-blood through a great artery, the travel of 
the north and east is continually throbbing. Sitting or 


i 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 


235 


tlie aforesaid bench I amuse myself with a conception, 
illustrated by numerous pencil sketches in the air, of 
the toll-gatlierer’s day. 

In the morning — dim, gray, dewy summer’s morn 
-— the distant roll of ponderous wheels begins to 
mingle with my old friend’s slumbers, creaking more 
and more harshly through the midst of his dream, and 
gradually replacing it with realities. Hardly con¬ 
scious of the change from sleep to wakefulness, he 
finds himself partly clad and throwing wide the toll- 
gates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay. The 
timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels; one 
sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen, and, peering 
from the summit of the hay, by the glimmer of the 
half-extinguished lantern over the toll-house, is seen 
the drowsy visage of his comrade, who has enjoyed a 
nap some ten miles long. The toll is paid — creak, 
creak, again go the wheels, and the huge haymow van¬ 
ishes into the morning mist. As yet, nature is but 
half awake, and familiar objects appear visionary. 
But yonder, dashing from the shore with a rattling 
thunder of the wheels and a confused clatter of hoofs, 
comes the never-tiring mail, which has hurried onward 
at the same headlong, restless rate, all through the 
quiet night. The bridge resomids in one continued 
peal as the coach rolls on without a pause, merely af¬ 
fording the toll-gatherer a glimpse at the sleepy pas¬ 
sengers, who now bestir their torpid limbs and snuff 
a cordial in the briny air. The morn breathes upon 
them and blushes, and they forget how wearily the 
darkness toiled away. And behold now the fervid 
day, in his bright chariot, glittering aslant over the 
waves, nor scorning to throw a tribute of his golden 
beams on the toll-gatherer’s little hermitage. The 


236 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


old man looks eastward, and (for he is a moralizer) 
frames a simile of the stage-coach and the sun. 

While the world is rousing itself, we may glance 
slightly at the scene of our sketch. It sits above the 
bosom of the broad flood, a spot not of earth, but in 
the midst of waters, which rush with a murmuring 
sound among the massive beams beneath. Over the 
door is a weather-beaten board, inscribed with the 
rates of toll, in letters so nearly effaced that the gild¬ 
ing of the sunshine can hardly make them legible. 
Beneath the window is a wooden bench, on which a 
long succession of weary wayfarers have reposed them¬ 
selves. Peeping within doors, we perceive the white¬ 
washed walls bedecked with sundry lithographic prints 
and advertisements of various import, and the immense 
showbill of a wandering caravan. And there sits our 
good old toll-gatherer, glorified by the early sunbeams. 
He is a man, as his aspect may announce, of quiet 
soul, and thoughtful, shrewd, yet simple mind, who, 
of the wisdom which the passing world scatters along 
the wayside, has gathered a reasonable store. 

Now the sun smiles upon the landscape, and earth 
smiles back again upon the sky. Frequent, now, are 
the travellers. The toll-gatherer’s practised ear can 
distinguish the weight of every vehicle, the number 
of its wheels, and how many horses beat the resound¬ 
ing timbers with their iron tramp. Here, in a sub¬ 
stantial family chaise, setting forth betimes to take 
advantage of the dewy road, come a gentleman and 
his wife, with their rosy-cheeked little girl sitting glad- 
somely between them. The bottom of the chaise is 
heaped with multifarious band-boxes, and carpet-bags, 
and beneath the axle swings a leathern trunk, dusty 
with yesterday’s journey. Next appears a four-wheeled 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY. 


237 


carryall, peopled with a round half dozen of pretty 
girls, all drawn by a single horse, and driven by a 
single gentleman. Luckless wight, doomed, through 
a whole summer day, to be the butt of mirth and mis¬ 
chief among the frolicsome maidens ! Bolt upright 
in a sulky rides a thin, sour-visaged man, who, as he 
pays his toll, hands the toll-gatherer a printed card 
to stick upon the wall. The vinegar-faced traveller 
proves to be a manufacturer of pickles. Now paces 
slowly from timber to timber a horseman clad in 
black, with a meditative brow, as of one who, whith¬ 
ersoever his steed might bear him, would still journey 
through a mist of brooding thought. He is a country 
preacher, going to labor at a protracted meeting. The 
next object passing townward is a butcher’s cart, can¬ 
opied with its arch of snow-white cotton. Behind 
comes a “ sauceman,” driving a wagon full of new po¬ 
tatoes, green ears of corn, beets, carrots, turnips, and 
summer squashes; and next, two wrinkled, withered, 
witch-looking old gossips, in an antediluvian chaise, 
drawn by a horse of former generations, and going to 
peddle out a lot of huckleberries. See there, a man 
trundling a wheelbarrow load of lobsters. And now 
a milk cart rattles briskly onward, covered with green 
canvas, and conveying the contributions of a whole 
herd of cows in large tin canisters. But let all these 
pay their toll and pass. Here comes a spectacle that 
causes the old toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if 
the travellers brought sunshine with them and lav¬ 
ished its gladsome influence all along the road. 

It is a barouche of the newest style, the varnished 
panels of which reflect the whole moving panorama 
of the landscape, and show a picture, likewise, of our 
friend, with his visage broadened, so that his medita 


238 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


fcive smile is transformed to grotesque merriment 
Within, sits a youth, fresh as the summer morn, and 
beside him a young lady in white, with white gloves 
upon her slender hands, and a white veil flowing down 
over her face. But methinks her blushing cheek burns 
through the snowy veil. Another white-robed virgin 
sits in front. And who are these, on whom, and on 
all that appertains to them, the dust of earth seems 
never to have settled ? Two lovers, whom the priest 
has blessed this blessed morn, and sent them forth, 
with one of the bridemaids, on the matrimonial tour. 
Take my blessing too, ye happy ones! May the sky 
not frown upon you, nor clouds bedew you with their 
chill and sullen rain! May the hot sim kindle no 
fever in your hearts ! May your whole life’s pilgrim¬ 
age be as blissful as this first day’s journey, and its 
close be gladdened with even brighter anticipations 
than those which hallow your bridal night! 

They pass; and ere the reflection of their joy has 
faded from his face, another spectacle throws a melan¬ 
choly shadow over the spirit of the observing man. In 
a close carriage sits a fragile figure, muffled carefully, 
and shrinking even from the mild breath of summer. 
She leans against a manly form, and his arm enfolds 
her, as if to guard his treasure from some enemy. Let . 
but a few weeks pass, and when he shall strive to em¬ 
brace that loved one, he will press only desolation to 
his heart. 

And now has morning gathered up her dewy pearls 
and fled away. The sun rolls blazing through the sky, 
and cannot find a cloud to cool his face with. The 
horses toil sluggishly along the bridge, and heave their 
glistening sides in short quick pantings, when the reins 
are tightened at the toll-house. Glisten, too, the faces 


THE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY. 


239 


of the travellers. Their garments are thickly bestrewn 
with dust; their whiskers and hair look hoary; their 
throats are choked with the dusty atmosphere which 
they have left behind them. No air is stirring on the 
road. Nature dares draw no breath, lest she should 
inhale a stifling cloud of dust. “A hot and dusty 
day! ” cry the poor pilgrims, as they wipe their be¬ 
grimed foreheads, and woo the doubtful breeze which 
the river bears along with it. “ Awful hot! Dreadful 
dusty ! ” answers the sympathetic toll-gatherer. They 
start again to pass through the fiery furnace, while he 
reenters his cool hermitage, and besprinkles it with a 
pail of briny water from the stream beneath. He 
thinks within himself that the sun is not so fierce here 
as elsewhere, and that the gentle air does not forget 
him in these sultry days. Yes, old friend ; and a quiet 
heart will make a dog-day temperate. He hears a 
weary footstep, and perceives a traveller with pack and 
staff, who sits down upon the hospitable bench, and re¬ 
moves the hat from his wet brow. The toll-gatherer 
administers a cup of cold water, and discovering his 
guest to be a man of homely sense, he engages him in 
profitable talk, uttering the maxims of a philosophy 
which he has found in his own soul, but knows not 
how it came there. And as the wayfarer makes ready 
to resume his journey, he tells him a sovereign remedy 
for blistered feet. 

Now comes the noontide hour — of all the hours 
nearest akin to midnight; for each has its own calm¬ 
ness and repose. Soon, however, the world begins to 
turn again upon its axis, and it seems the busiest 
epoch of the day; when an accident impedes the march 
of sublunary things. The draw being lifted to permit 
the passage of a schooner, laden with wood from the 


240 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


eastern forests, slie sticks immovably, right athwart 
the bridge! Meanwhile, on both sides of the chasm, 
a throng of impatient travellers fret and fume. Here 
are two sailors in a gig, with the top thrown back, both 
puffing cigars, and swearing all sorts of forecastle 
oaths; there, in a smart chaise, a dashingly dressed 
gentleman and lady, he from a tailor’s shopboard and 
she from a milliner’s back room — the aristocrats of 
a summer afternoon. And what are the haughtiest of 
us but the ephemeral aristocrats of a summer’s day ? 
Here is a tin pedlar, whose glittering ware bedazzles 
all beholders, like a travelling meteor or opposition 
sun ; and on the other side a seller of spruce beer, 
which brisk liquor is confined in several dozen of stone 
bottles. Here comes a party of ladies on horseback, 
in green riding habits, and gentlemen attendant; and 
there a flock of sheep for the market, pattering over 
the bridge with a multitudinous clatter of their little 
hoofs. Here a Frenchman, with a hand organ on his 
shoulder; and there an itinerant Swiss jeweller. On 
this side, heralded by a blast of clarions and bugles, 
appears a train of wagons, conveying all the wild beasts 
of a caravan; and on that, a company of summer sol¬ 
diers, marching from village to village on a festival 
campaign, attended by the “ Brass band.” Now look 
at the scene, and it presents an emblem of the myste¬ 
rious confusion, the apparently insolvable riddle,' in 
which individuals, or the great world itself, seem often 
to be involved. What miracle shall set all things 
right again? 

But see! the schooner has thrust her bulky carcass 
through the chasm; the draw descends; horse and 
foot pass onward, and leave the bridge vacant from 
end to end. “And thus,” muses the toll-gatlierer, 


THE TOLL-GATHERER'S DAY. 


241 


44 have I found it with all stoppages, even though the 
universe seemed to be at a stand.” The sage old man! 

Far westward now the reddening sun throws a broad 
sheet of splendor across the flood, and to the eyes of 
distant boatmen gleams brightly among the timbers of 
the bridge. Strollers come from the town to quaff the 
freshening breeze. One or two let down long lines, 
and haul up flapping flounders, or cunners, or small 
cod, or perhaps an eel. Others, and fair girls among 
them, with the flush of the hot day still on their 
cheeks, bend over the railing and watch the heaps of 
seaweed floating upward with the flowing tide. The 
horses now tramp heavily along the bridge, and wist¬ 
fully bethink them of their stables. Rest, rest, thou 
weary world! for to-morrow’s round of toil and pleas¬ 
ure will be as wearisome as to-day’s has been; yet 
both shall bear thee onward a day's march of eternity. 
Now the old toll-gatherer looks seaward, and discerns 
the light-house kindling on a far island, and the stars, 
too, kindling in the sky, as if but a little way beyond; 
and mingling reveries of heaven with remembrances 
of earth, the whole procession of mortal travellers, all 
the dusty pilgrimage which he has witnessed, seems 
like a flitting show of phantoms for his thoughtful sou] 
to muse upon. 

VOL. x. 16 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 


At fifteen I became a resident in a country village, 
more than a hundred miles from home. The morning 
after my arrival — a September morning, but warm 
and bright as any in July — I rambled into a wood of 
oaks, with a few walnut-trees intermixed, forming the 
closest shade above my head. The ground was rocky, 
uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of young 
saplings, and traversed only by cattle paths. The 
track which I chanced to follow led me to a crystal 
spring, with a border of grass as freshly green as on 
May morning, and overshadowed by the limb of a 
great oak. One solitary sunbeam found its way down, 
and played like a goldfish in the water. 

From my childhood I have loved to gaze into a 
spring. The water filled a circular basin, small but 
deep, and set round with stones, some of which were 
covered with slimy moss, the others naked, and of 
variegated hue, reddish, white, and brown. The bot¬ 
tom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled 
in the lonely sunbeam, and seemed to illuminate tlio 
spring with an unborrowed light. In one spot the 
gush of the water violently agitated the sand, but with¬ 
out obscuring the fountain, or breaking the glassiness 
of its surface. It appeared as if some living creature 
were about to emerge — the Naiad of the spring, per¬ 
haps — in the shape of a beautiful young woman, with 
a gown of filmy water moss, a belt of rainbow drops, 
and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. How would 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 243 


the beholder shiver, pleasantly yet fearfully, to see 
her sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white 
feet in the ripples, and throwing up water to sparkle 
in the sun! Wherever she laid her hands on grass 
and flowers, they would immediately be moist as with 
morning dew. Then would she set about her labors, 
like a careful housewife, to clear the fountain of with¬ 
ered leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old acorns 
from the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle 
in drinking, till the bright sand, in the bright water, 
was like a treasury of diamonds. But, should the in¬ 
truder approach too near, he would find only the drops 
of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he 
had seen her. 

Reclining on the border of grass, where the dewy 
goddess should have been, I bent forward, and a pair 
of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. They 
were the reflection of my own. I looked again, and 
lo! another face, deeper in the fountain than my own 
image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as 
thought. The vision had the aspect of a fair young 
girl, with locks of paly gold. A mirthful expression 
laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shad¬ 
owy countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain 
would be, if, while dancing merrily into the sunshine, 
it should assume the shape of woman. Through the 
dim rosiness of the cheeks I could see the brown 
leaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns, and the sparkling 
sand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused among the 
golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness, 
and became a glory round that head so beautiful J 

My description can give no idea how suddenly the 
fountain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left 
desolate. I breathed, and there was the face ! I held 


244 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


my breath, and it was gone! Had it passed away, 
or faded into nothing ? I doubted whether it had ever 
been. 

My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious 
hour did I spend, where that vision found and left 
me! For a long time I sat perfectly still, waiting 
till it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest 
motion, or even the flutter of my breath, might 
frighten it away. Thus have I often started from a 
pleasant dream, and then kept quiet in hopes to wile 
it back. Deep were my musings, as to the race and 
attributes of that ethereal being. Had I created her ? 
Was she the daughter of my fancy, akin to those 
strange shapes which peep under the lids of children’s 
eyes ? And did her beauty gladden me, for that 
one moment, and then die ? Or was she a water 
nymph within the fountain, or fairy, or woodland 
goddess, peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost 
of some forsaken maid who had drowned herself 
for love ? Or, in good truth, had a lovely girl, with 
a warm heart and lips that would bear pressure, sto. 
len softly behind me, and thrown her image into the 
spring ? 

I watched and waited, but no vision came again. 
I departed, but with a spell upon me which drew me 
back, that same afternoon, to the haunted spring. 
There was the water gushing, the sand sparkling, 
and the sunbeam glimmering. There the vision was 
not, but only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, 
who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and 
made himself invisible, all except a pair of long 
legs, beneath a stone. Methought he had a devilish 
look ! I could have slain him as an enchanter 
who kept the mysterious beauty imprisoned in the 
fountain. 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 245 


Sacl and heavy, I was returning to the village. 
Between me and the church spire rose a little hill, 
and on its summit a group of trees, insulated from all 
the rest of the wood, with their own share of radiance 
hovering on them from the west, and their own solitary 
shadow falling to the east. The afternoon being far 
declined, the sunshine was ahnost pensive, and the 
shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were mingled 
in the placid light; as if the spirits of the Day and 
Evening had met in friendship under those trees, and 
found themselves akin. I was admiring the picture, 
when the shape of a young girl emerged from behind 
the clump of oaks. My heart knew her ; it was the 
Vision ; but so distant and ethereal did she seem, so 
unmixed with earth, so imbued with the pensive glory 
of the spot where she was standing, that my spirit 
sunk within me, sadder than before. How could I 
ever reach her ? 

While I gazed, a sudden shower came pattering 
down upon the leaves. In a moment the air was full 
of brightness, each raindrop catching a portion of 
sunlight as it fell, and the whole gentle shower ap¬ 
pearing like a mist, just substantial enough to bear the 
burden of radiance. A rainbow, vivid as Niagara’s, 
was painted in the air. Its southern limb came down 
before the group of trees, and enveloped the fair 
Vision, as if the hues of heaven were the only gar¬ 
ment for her beauty. When the rainbow vanished, 
she, who had seemed a part of it, was no longer 
there. Was her existence absorbed in nature’s love¬ 
liest phenomenon, and did her pure frame dissolve 
away in the varied light ? Yet, I would not despair 
of her return; for, robed in the rainbow, she was the 
emblem of Hope. 


246 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Thus did the vision leave me ; and many a doleful 
day succeeded to the parting moment. By the spring, 
and in the wood, and on the hill, and through the vil¬ 
lage ; at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that 
magic hour of sunset when she had vanished from my 
sight, I sought her, but in vain. Weeks came and 
went, months rolled away, and she appeared not in 
them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered 
to and fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had caught 
a glimpse of heaven, and could take no more joy on 
earth. I withdrew into an inner world, where my 
thoughts lived and breathed, and the Vision in the 
midst of them. Without intending it, I became at 
once the author and hero of a romance, conjuring up 
rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my 
own, and experiencing every change of passion, till 
jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had 
I the burning fancy of my early youth, with man¬ 
hood’s colder gift, the power of expression, your 
hearts, sweet ladies, should flutter at my tale! 

In the middle of January I was summoned home. 
The day before my departure, visiting the spots which 
had been hallowed by the Vision, I found that the 
spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow 
and a glare of winter sunshine on the hill of the rain¬ 
bow. “ Let me hope,” thought I, “ or my heart will be 
as icy as the fomitain, and the whole world as desolate 
as this snowy hill.” Most of the day was spent in 
preparing for the journey, which was to commence at 
four o’clock the next morning. About an hour after 
supper, when all was in readiness, I descended from 
my chamber to the sitting-room, to take leave of the 
old clergyman and his family with whom I had been 
an inmate. A gust of wind blew out my lamp as ] 
passed through the entry. 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 247 


According to their invariable custom, so pleasant a 
one when the fire blazes cheerfully, the family were 
sitting in the parlor, with no other light than what 
came from the hearth. As the good clergyman’s 
scanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts of econ¬ 
omy, the foundation of his fires was always a large 
heap of tan, or ground bark, which would smoulder 
away, from morning till night, with a dull warmth 
and no flame. This evening the heap of tan was 
newly put on, and surmounted with three sticks of red 
oak, full of moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine, 
that had not yet kindled. There was no light, except 
the little that came sullenly from two half-burned 
brands, without even glimmering on the andirons. 
But I knew the position of the old minister’s arm¬ 
chair, and also where his wife sat, with her knitting- 
work, and how to avoid his two daughters, one a stout 
country lass, and the other a consumptive girl. Grop¬ 
ing through the gloom, I found my own place next to 
that of the son, a learned collegian, who had come 
home to keep school in the village during the winter 
vacation. I noticed that there was less room than 
usual, to-night, between the collegian’s chair and 
mine. 

As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a 
word was said for some time after my entrance. Noth¬ 
ing broke the stillness but the regular click of the 
matron’s knitting-needles. At times, the fire threw 
out a brief and dusky gleam, which twinkled on the 
old man’s glasses, and hovered doubtfully round our 
circle, but was far too faint to portray the individuals 
who composed it. Were we not like ghosts ? Dreamy 
as the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode 
in which departed people, who had known and loved 


248 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


each other here, would hold communion in eternity? 
We were aware of each other’s presence, not by sight, 
nor sound, nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. 
Would it not be so among the dead ? 

The silence was interrupted by the consumptive 
daughter, addressing a remark to some one in the 
circle whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous and 
decayed accents were answered by a single word, but 
in a voice that made me start, and bend towards the 
spot whence it had proceeded. Had I ever heard that 
sweet, low tone ? If not, why did it rouse up so many 
old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of 
things familiar, yet unknown, and fill my mind with 
confused images of her features who had spoken, 
though buried in the gloom of the parlor? Whom 
had my heart recognized, that it throbbed so ? I 
listened to catch her gentle breathing, and strove, by 
the intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape 
'vdiere none was visible. 

Suddenly the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up 
with a ruddy glow; and where the darkness had been, 
there was she — the Vision of the Fountain ! A spirit 
of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow, 
and appeared again in the firelight, perhaps to flicker 
with the blaze, and be gone. Yet, her cheek was rosy 
and life-like, and her features, in the bright warmth of 
the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my 
recollection of them. She knew me! The mirthful 
expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled 
over her countenance, when I beheld her faint beauty 
in the fountain, was laughing and dimpling there now. 
One moment our glance mingled — the next, down 
rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood — and 
darkness snatched away the Daughter of the Light- 
and gave her back to me no more ! 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN. 249 


Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must 
the simple mystery he revealed, then, that Rachel was 
the daughter of the village squire, and had left home 
for a hoarding-school, the morning after I arrived 
and returned the day before my departure ? If I 
transformed her to an angel, it is what every youth¬ 
ful lover does for his mistress. Therein consists the 
essence of my story. But slight the change, sweet 
maids, to make angels of yourselves! 


FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 


A MORALITY. 

What is Guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it 
is a point of vast interest whether the soul may con¬ 
tract such stains, in all their depth and flagrancy, 
from deeds which may have been plotted and resolved 
upon, but which, physically, have never had existence. 
Must the fleshly hand and visible frame of man set 
its seal to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give 
them their entire validity against the sinner ? Or, 
while none but crimes perpetrated are cognizable be¬ 
fore an earthly tribunal, will guilty thoughts — of 
which guilty deeds are no more than shadows — will 
these draw down the full weight of a condemning 
sentence, in the supreme court of eternity ? In the 
solitude of a midnight chamber or in a desert, afar 
from men or in a church, while the body is kneeling, 
the soul may pollute itself even with those crimes 
which we are accustomed to deem altogether carnal. 
If this be true, it is a fearful truth. 

Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary exam¬ 
ple. A venerable gentleman, one Mr. Smith, who had 
long been regarded as a pattern of moral excellence, 
was warming his aged blood with a glass or two of 
generous wine. His children being gone forth about 
their worldly business, and his grandchildren at school, 
he sat alone, in a deep, luxurious arm-chair, with his 
feet beneath a richly-carved mahogany table. Some 


FANCY’S SHOW BOX . 


251 


old people have a dread of solitude, and when better 
company may not be had, rejoice even to hear the 
quiet breathing of a babe, asleep upon the carpet. 
But Mr. Smith, whose silver hair was the bright sym¬ 
bol of a life unstained, except by such spots as are 
inseparable from human nature, had no need of a 
babe to protect him by its purity, nor of a grown per¬ 
son to stand between him and his own soul. Never¬ 
theless, either Manhood must converse with Age, or 
Womanhood must soothe him with gentle cares, or 
Infancy must sport around his chair, or his thoughts 
will stray into the misty region of the past, and the 
old man be chill and sad. Wine will not always cheer 
him. Such might have been the case with Mr. Smith, 
when, through the brilliant medium of his glass of old 
Madeira, he beheld three figures entering the room. 
These were Fancy, who had assmned the garb and as¬ 
pect of an itinerant showman, with a box of pictures 
on her back ; and Memory, in the likeness of a clerk, 
with a pen behind her ear, an inkhorn at her button¬ 
hole, and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm; 
and lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in 
a dusky mantle, which concealed both face and form. 
But Mr. Smith had a shrewd idea that it was Con¬ 
science. 

How kind of Fancy, Memory, and Conscience to 
visit the old gentleman, just as he was beginning to 
imagine that the wine had neither so bright a sparkle 
nor so excellent a flavor as when himself and the 
liquor were less aged! Through the dim length of the 
apartment, where crimson curtains muffled the glare 
of sunshine and created a rich obscurity, the three 
guests drew near the silver-haired old man. Memory, 
with a finger between the leaves of her huge volume, 


252 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


placed herself at his right hand. Conscience, with her 
face still hidden in the dusky mantle, took her station 
on the left, so as to be next his heart; while Fancy set 
down her picture box upon the table, with the magni¬ 
fying glass convenient to his eye. We can sketch 
merely the outlines of two or three out of the many 
pictures which, at the pulling of a string, successively 
peopled the box with the semblances of living scenes. 

One was a moonlight picture: in the oackground, 
a lowly dwelling; and in front, partly shadowed by a 
tree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two youth¬ 
ful figures, male and female. The young man stood 
with folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip, and a 
gleam of triumph in his eye, as he glanced downward 
at the kneeling girl. She was almost prostrate at his 
feet, evidently sinking under a weight of shame and 
anguish, which hardly allowed her to lift her clasped 
hands in supplication. Her eyes she could not lift. 
But neither her agony, nor the lovely features on which 
it was depicted, nor the slender grace of the form 
which it convulsed, appeared to soften the obduracy of 
the young man. He was the personification of trium¬ 
phant scorn. Now, strange to say, as old Mr. Smith 
peeped through the magnifying glass, which made the 
objects start out from the canvas with magical decep¬ 
tion, he began to recognize the farm-house, the tree, 
and both the figures of the picture. The young man, 
in times long past, had often met his gaze within the 
looking-glass; the girl was the very image of his first 
love — his cottage love —his Martha Burroughs! Mr. 
Smith was scandalized. “ O vile and slanderous pict¬ 
ure !he exclaims. “ When have I triumphed over 
ruined innocence ? Was not Martha wedded, in her 
teens, to David Tomkins, who won her girlish love, 


FANCY'S SHOW BOX . 


253 


find long enjoyed her affection as a wife ? And ever 
since his death she has lived a reputable widow! ” 
Meantime, Memory was turning over the leaves of her 
volume, rustling them to and fro with uncertain fingers, 
until, among the earlier pages, she found one which 
had reference to this picture. She reads it, close to 
the old gentleman’s ear; it is a record merely of sin¬ 
ful thought, which never was embodied in an act; but 
while Memory is reading, Conscience unveils her face, 
and strikes a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith. 
Though not a death-blow, the torture was extreme. 

The exhibition proceeded. One after another, 
Fancy displayed her pictures, all of which appeared 
to have been painted by some malicious artist on pur¬ 
pose to vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof could 
have been adduced, in any earthly court, that he was 
guilty of the slightest of those sins which were thus 
made to stare him in the face. In one scene there 
was a table set out, with several bottles, and glasses 
half filled with wine, which threw back the dull ray of 
an expiring lamp. There had been mirth and rev¬ 
elry, until the hand of the clock stood just at mid¬ 
night, when murder stepped between the boon com¬ 
panions. A young man had fallen on the floor, and 
lay stone dead, with a ghastly wound crushed into his 
temple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled 
rage and horror in his countenance, stood the youth¬ 
ful likeness of Mr. Smith. The murdered youth wore 
the features of Edward Spencer! “ What does this 

rascal of a painter mean?” cries Mr. Smith, pro¬ 
voked beyond all patience. “Edward Spencer was 
my earliest and dearest friend, true to me as I to him, 
through more than half a century. Neither I, nor any 
other, ever murdered him. Was he not alive within 


254 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


five years, and did lie not, in token of our long friend¬ 
ship, bequeath me his gold-headed cane and a mourn¬ 
ing ring?” Again had Memory been turning over 
her volume, and fixed at length upon so confused a 
page that she surely must have scribbled it when she 
was tipsy. The purport was, however, that while Mr. 
Smith and Edward Spencer were heating their young 
blood with wine, a quarrel had flashed up between 
them, and Mr. Smith, in deadly wrath, had flung a 
bottle at Spencer’s head. True, it missed its aim, 
and merely smashed a looking-glass; and the next 
morning, when the incident was imperfectly remem¬ 
bered, they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. 
Yet, again, while Memory was reading, Conscience 
unveiled her face, struck a dagger to the heart of Mr. 
Smith, and quelled his remonstrance with her iron 
frown. The pain was quite excruciating. 

Some of the pictures had been painted with so 
doubtful a touch, and in colors so faint and pale, that 
the subjects could barely be conjectured. A dull, 
semi-transparent mist had been thrown over the sur¬ 
face of the canvas, into which the figures seemed to 
vanish, while the eye sought most earnestly to fix 
them. But in every scene, however dubiously por¬ 
trayed, Mr. Smith was invariably haunted by his own 
lineaments, at various ages, as in a dusty mirror. Af¬ 
ter poring several minutes over one of these blurred 
and almost indistinguishable pictures, he began to see 
that the painter had intended to represent him, now 
in the decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the 
backs of three half-starved children. “ Really, this 
puzzles me!” quoth Mr. Smith, with the irony of 
conscious rectitude. “ Asking pardon of the painter, 
1 pronounce him a fool, as well as a scandalous knave. 


FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 


255 


A man of my standing in the world to be robbing 
little children of their clothes! Ridiculous! ” But 
while he spoke, Memory had searched her fatal vol¬ 
ume, and found a page, which, with her sad, calm 
voice, she poured into his ear. It was not altogether 
inapplicable to the misty scene. It told how Mr. 
Smith had been grievously tempted by many devilish 
sophistries, on the ground of a legal quibble, to com¬ 
mence a lawsuit against three orphan children, joint 
heirs to a considerable estate. Fortunately, before he 
was quite decided, his claims had turned out nearly 
as devoid of law as justice. As Memory ceased to 
read, Conscience again thrust aside her mantle, and 
would have struck her victim with the envenomed 
dagger, only that he struggled and clasped his hands 
before his heart. Even then, however, he sustained 
an ugly gash. 

Why should we follow Fancy through the whole 
series of those awful pictures ? Painted by an artist 
of wondrous power, and terrible acquaintance with 
the secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the 
never perpetrated sins that had glided through the 
lifetime of Mr. Smith. And could such beings of 
cloudy fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid 
evidence against him at the day of judgment? Be 
that the case or not, there is reason to believe that 
one truly penitential tear would have washed away 
each hateful picture, and left the canvas white as 
snow. But Mr. Smith, at a prick of Conscience too 
keen to be endured, bellowed aloud, with impatient 
agony, and suddenly discovered that his three guests 
were gone. There he sat alone, a silver-haired and 
highly-venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the 
crimson-curtained room, with no box of pictures on 


256 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


the table, but only a decanter of most excellent Ma¬ 
deira. Yet his heart still seemed to fester with the 
venom of the dagger. 

Nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might 
have argued the matter with Conscience, and alleged 
many reasons wherefore she should not smite him so 
pitilessly. Were we to take up his cause, it should 
be somewhat in the following fashion: A scheme of 
guilt, till it be put in execution, greatly resembles a 
train of incidents in a projected tale. The latter, in 
order to produce a sense of reality in the reader’s 
mind, must be conceived with such proportionate 
strength by the author as to seem, in the glow of 
fancy, more like truth, past, present, or to come, than 
purely fiction. The prospective sinner, on the other 
hand, weaves his plot of crime, but seldom or never 
feels a perfect certainty that it will be executed. 
There is a dreaminess diffused about his thoughts; 
in a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow 
into his victim’s heart, and starts to find an indelible 
blood-stain on his hand. Thus a novel writer or a 
dramatist, in creating a villain of romance and fitting 
him with evil deeds, and the villain of actual life, in 
projecting crimes that will be perpetrated, may almost 
meet each other half-way between reality and fancy. 
It is not until the crime is accomplished that guilt 
clinches its gripe upon the guilty heart, and claims it 
for its own. Then, and not before, sin is actually felt 
and acknowledged, and, if unaccompanied by repent¬ 
ance, grows a thousand-fold more virulent by its self- 
consciousness. Be it considered, also, that men often 
over-estimate their capacity for evil. At a distance, 
while its attendant circumstances do not press upon 
their notice, and its results are dimly seen, they can 


FANCY’S SHOW BOX. 


257 


bear to contemplate it. They may take the steps 
which lead to crime, impelled by the same sort of 
mental action as in working out a mathematical prob¬ 
lem, yet be powerless with compunction at the final 
moment. They knew not what deed it was that they 
deemed themselves resolved to do. In truth, there is 
no such thing in man’s nature as a settled and full 
resolve, either for good or evil, except at the very mo¬ 
ment of execution. Let us hope, therefore, that all 
the dreadful consequences of sin will not be incurred, 
unless the act have set its seal upon the thought. 

Yet, with the slight fancy work which we have 
framed, some sad and awful truths are interwoven. 
Man must not disclaim his brotherhood, even with the 
guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart 
has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of 
iniquity. He must feel that, when he shall knock at 
the gate of heaven, no semblance of an unspotted life 
can entitle him to entrance there. Penitence must 
kneel, and Mercy come from the footstool of the 
throne, or that golden gate will never open! 

VOL. L 17 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 

That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once 
invited four venerable friends to meet him in his 
study. There were three white-bearded gentlemen, 
Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gas¬ 
coigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name was 
the Widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy old 
creatures, who had been unfortunate in life, and whose 
greatest misfortune it was that they were not long 
ago in their graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of. 
his age, had been a prosperous merchant, but had lost 
his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little bet¬ 
ter than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted 
his best years, and his health and substance, in the 
pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had given birth to 
a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other 
torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a 
ruined politician, a man of evil fame, or at least had 
been so till time had buried him from the knowledge 
of the present generation, and made him obscure in¬ 
stead of infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, 
tradition tells us that she was a great beauty in her 
day ; but, for a long while past, she had lived in deep 
seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories 
which had prejudiced the gentry of the town against 
her. It is a circumstance worth mentioning that each 
of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colo¬ 
nel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers 
of the Widow Wycherly, and had once been on the 


DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 259 

point of cutting each other’s throats for her sake. And, 
before proceeding further, I will merely hint that Dr. 
Heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes 
thought to be a little beside themselves, — as is not 
unfrequently the case with old people, when worried 
either by present troubles or woful recollections. 

u My dear old friends,” said Dr. Heidegger, motion¬ 
ing them to be seated, “ I am desirous of your assist¬ 
ance in one of those little experiments with which I 
amuse myself here in my study.” 

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger’s study must 
have been a very curious place. It was a dim, old- 
fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and be¬ 
sprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood 
several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which 
were filled with rows of gigantic folios and black- 
letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment- 
covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was 
a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according 
to some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to 
hold consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. 
In the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and 
narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which 
doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the 
bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high 
and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among 
many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was 
fabled that the spirits of all the doctor’s deceased 
patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him 
in the face whenever he looked thitherward. The op¬ 
posite side of the chamber was ornamented with the 
full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the 
faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and 
with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a 


260 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of 
marriage with this young lady; but, being affected 
with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of 
her lover’s prescriptions, and died on the bridal even¬ 
ing. The greatest curiosity of the study remains to 
be mentioned ; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound 
in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There 
were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the 
title of the book. But it was well known to be a book 
of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted 
it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had 
rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had 
stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly 
faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the 
brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, and said, — “For¬ 
bear ! ” 

Such was Dr. Heidegger’s study. On the summer 
afternoon of our tale a small round table, as black as 
ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a 
cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate work¬ 
manship. The sunshine came through the window- 
between the heavy festoons of two faded damask cur¬ 
tains, and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild 
splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of 
the flve old people who sat around. Four champagne 
glasses were also on the table. 

“ My dear old friends,” repeated Dr. Heidegger, 
u may I reckon on your aid in performing an exceed¬ 
ingly curious experiment ? ” 

Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentle¬ 
man, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for 
a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these fables, to 
my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back 
to my own veracious self; and if any passages of tho 


DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 261 


present tale should startle the reader’s faith, I must 
be content to bear the stigma of a fiction monger. 

When the doctor’s four guests heard him talk of his 
proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more 
wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air pump, 
or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or 
some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly 
in the habit of pestering his intimates. But without 
waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the 
chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, 
bound in black leather, which common report affirmed 
to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he 
opened the volume, and took from among its black- 
letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though 
now tlie green leaves and crimson petals had assumed 
one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed 
ready to crumble to dust in the doctor’s hands. 

“ This rose,” said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, “ this 
same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five 
and fifty years ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, 
whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it 
in my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it 
has been treasured between the leaves of this old vol¬ 
ume. Now, would you deem it possible that this rose 
of half a century could ever bloom again ? ” 

“ Nonsense! ” said the Widow Wycherly, with a 
peevish toss of her head. “ You might as well ask 
whether an old woman’s wrinkled face could ever 
bloom again.” 

“ See ! ” answered Dr. Heidegger. 

He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose 
into the water which it contained. At first, it lay 
lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to im¬ 
bibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singulai 


262 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


change began to be visible. The crushed and dried 
petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crim¬ 
son, as if the flower were reviving from a deathlike 
slumber ; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage be¬ 
came green ; and there was the rose of half a century, 
looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given 
it to her lover. It was scarcely full blown ; for some 
of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its 
moist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops 
were spariding. 

44 That is certainly a very pretty deception,” said 
the doctor’s friends ; carelessly, however, for they had 
witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer’s show ; 44 pray 
how was it effected? ” 

“Did you never hear of the 4 Fountain of Youth? ’ ” 
asked Dr. Heidegger, 44 which Ponce De Leon, the 
Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or three 
centuries ago ? ” 

44 But did Ponce De Leon ever find it ? ” said the 
Widow Wycherly. 

44 No,” answered Dr. Heidegger, 44 for he never 
sought it in the right place. The famous Fountain of 
Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the 
southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from 
Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several 
gigantic magnolias, which, though numberless centu¬ 
ries old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the vir¬ 
tues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of 
mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent 
me what you see in the vase.” 

44 Ahem! ” said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not 
a word of the doctor’s story ; 44 and what may be the 
effect of this fluid on the human frame ? ” 

44 You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel,’ 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT. 263 


replied Dr. Heidegger; u and all of you, my respected 
friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable 
fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For 
my own part, having had much trouble in growing 
old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With 
your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the 
progress of the experiment.” 

While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the 
four champagne glasses with the water of the Fount¬ 
ain of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with 
an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually 
ascending from the depths of the glasses, and burst¬ 
ing in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor dif¬ 
fused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not 
that it possessed cordial and comfortable properties; 
and though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, 
they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. 
Heidegger besought them to stay a moment. 

“ Before you drink, my respectable old friends,” 
said he, “ it would be well that, with the experience 
of a lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few 
general rules for your guidance, in passing a second 
time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin 
and shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advan¬ 
tages, you should not become patterns of virtue and 
wisdom to all the young people of the age! ” 

The doctor’s four venerable friends made him no 
answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so 
very ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely 
repentance treads behind the steps of error, they 
should ever go astray again. 

Drink, then,” said the doctor, bowing: “ I re¬ 
joice that I have so well selected the subjects of my 
experiment.” 


264 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their 
lips. The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as 
Dr. Heidegger imputed to it, could not have been 
bestowed on four human beings who needed it more 
wofully. They looked as if they had never known 
what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring 
of Nature’s dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, sap¬ 
less, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round 
the doctor’s table, without life enough in their souls 
or bodies to be animated even by the prospect of grow¬ 
ing young again. They drank off the water, and re¬ 
placed their glasses on the table. 

Assuredly there was an almost immediate improve¬ 
ment in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might 
have been produced by a glass of generous wine, to¬ 
gether with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine bright¬ 
ening over all their visages at once. There was a 
healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the 
ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. 
They gazed at one another, and fancied that some 
magic power had really begun to smooth away the 
deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been 
so long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wych- 
erly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman 
again. 

“ Give us more of this wondrous water! ” cried 
they, eagerly. “We are younger — but we are still 
too old ! Quick — give us more ! ” 

“ Patience, patience! ” quoth Dr. Heidegger, who 
sat watching the experiment with philosophic cool¬ 
ness. “ You have been a long time growing old. 
Surely, you might be content to grow young in half 
an hour ! But the water is at your service.” 

Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT . 265 


youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to 
turn half the old people in the city to the age of 
their own grandchildren. While the bubbles were 
yet sparkling on the brim, the doctor’s four guests 
snatched their glasses from the table, and swallowed 
the contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion ? even 
while the draught was passing down their throats, it 
seemed to have wrought a change on their whole sys¬ 
tems. Their eyes grew clear and bright; a dark 
shade deepened among their silvery locks, they sat 
around the table, three gentlemen of middle age, and 
a woman, hardly beyond her buxom prime. 

“ My dear widow, you are charming! ” cried Colonel 
Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, 
while the shadows of age were flitting from it like 
darkness from the crimson daybreak. 

The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killi¬ 
grew’s compliments were not always measured by 
sober truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, 
still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman 
would meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentle¬ 
men behaved in such a manner as proved that the 
water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxi¬ 
cating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of 
spirits were merely a lightsome dizziness caused by 
the sudden removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gas¬ 
coigne’s mind seemed to run on political topics, but 
whether relating to the past, present, or future, could 
not easily be determined, since the same ideas and 
phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. Now he 
rattled forth full-throated sentences about patriotism, 
national glory, and the people’s right; now he mut¬ 
tered some perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubt¬ 
ful whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience 



266 



TWICE-TOLD TALES. 

could scarcely catch the secret; and now, again, he 
spoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential 
tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned 
periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been 
trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his glass 
in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered 
toward the buxom figure of the Widow M^ycherly 
On the other side of the table, Mr. Medbourne was 
involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, with 
which was strangely intermingled a project for sup¬ 
plying the East Indies with ice, by harnessing a team 
of whales to the polar icebergs. 

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the 
mirror courtesying and simpering to her own image, 
and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better 
than all the world beside. She thrust her face close 
to the glass, to see whether some long-remembered 
wrinkle or crow’s foot had indeed vanished. She ex¬ 
amined whether the snow had so entirely melted from 
her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown 
aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a 
sort of dancing step to the table. 

“ My dear old doctor,” cried she, “ pray favor me 
with another glass ! ” 

“ Certainly, my dear madam, certainly! ” replied 
the complaisant doctor; “ see! I have already filled 
the glasses.” 

There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this 
wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it 
effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous 
glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset 
that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but 
a mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within 
the vase, and rested alike on the four guests and on 


DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 267 


the doctor’s venerable figure. He sat in a high- 
backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, with a 
gray dignity of aspect that might have well befitted 
that very Father Time, whose power had never been 
disputed, save by this fortunate company. Even 
while quaffing the third draught of the Fountain of 
Youth, they were almost awed by the expression of 
his mysterious visage. 

But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of 
young life shot through their veins. They were 
now in the happy prime of youth.. Age, with its 
miserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, 
was remembered only as the trouble of a dream, from 
which they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of 
the soul, so early lost, and without which the world’s 
successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pict¬ 
ures, again threw its enchantment over all their pros¬ 
pects. They felt like new-created beings in a new- 
created universe. 

“We are young! We are young!” they cried 
exultingly. 

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the 
strongly-marked characteristics of middle life, and 
mutually assimilated them all. They were a group 
of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the ex¬ 
uberant frolicsomeness of their years. The most sin¬ 
gular effect of their gayety was an impulse to mock 
the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so 
lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their 
old-fashioned attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped 
waistcoats of the young men, and the ancient cap and 
gown of the blooming girl. One limped across the 
floor like a gouty grandfather ; one set a pair of spec¬ 
tacles astride of his nose, and pretended to pore over 


268 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


the black-letter pages of the book of magic ; a third 
seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate 
the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all 
shouted mirthfully, and leaped about the room. The 
Widow Wycherly — if so fresh a damsel could be 
called a widow — tripped up to the docter’s chair, 
with a mischievous merriment in her rosy face. 

44 Doctor, you dear old soul,” cried she, 44 get up and 
dance with me ! ” And then the four young people 
laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure 
the poor old doctor would cut. 

44 Pray excuse me,” answered the doctor quietly. 
44 1 am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days 
were over long ago. But either of these gay 
yoimg gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a part¬ 
ner.” 

44 Dance with me, Clara ! ” cried Colonel Killigrew. 

44 No, no, I will be her partner!” shouted Mr. 
Gascoigne. 

44 She promised me her hand, fifty years ago! ” 
exclaimed Mr. Medbourne. 

They all gathered round her. One caught both 
her hands in his passionate grasp — another threw 
his arm about her waist — the third buried his hand 
among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the 
widow’s cap. Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, 
laughing, her warm breath fanning each of their 
faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet 
still remained in their triple embrace. Never was 
there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with 
bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange 
deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, 
and the antique dresses which they still wore, the 
tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of 


DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 269 


the three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously 
contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled 
grandam. 

But they were young: their burning passions 
proved them so. Inflamed to madness by the co¬ 
quetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor 
quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to 
interchange threatening glances. Still keeping hold 
of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one an¬ 
other’s throats. As they struggled to and fro, the 
table was overturned, and the vase dashed into a thou¬ 
sand fragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed 
in a bright stream across the floor, moistening the 
wings of a butterfly, which, grown old in the decline 
of summer, had alighted there to die. The insect flut¬ 
tered lightly through the chamber, and settled on the 
snowy head of Dr. Heidegger. 

“ Come, come, gentlemen! — come, Madam Wych- 
erly,” exclaimed the doctor, “ I really must protest 
against this riot.” 

They stood still and shivered; for it seemed as if 
gray Time were calling them back from their sunny 
youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of 
years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in 
his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a cent¬ 
ury, which he had rescued from among the fragments 
of the shattered vase. At the motion of his hand, the 
four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily, be¬ 
cause their violent exertions had wearied them, youth¬ 
ful though they were. 

u My poor Sylvia’s rose! ” ejaculated Dr. Heideg¬ 
ger, holding it in the light of the simset clouds; “ it 
appears to be fading again.” 

And so it was. Even while the party were looking 


270 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became 
as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown 
it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of moist¬ 
ure which clung to its petals. 

“ I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness,” 
observed he, pressing the withered rose to his with¬ 
ered lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered 
down from the doctor’s snowy head, and fell upon the 
floor. 

His guests shivered again. A strange chillness, 
whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was 
creeping gradually over them all. They gazed at 
one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment 
snatched away a charm, and left a deepening furrow 
where none had been before. Was it an illusion? 
Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so 
brief a space, and were they now four aged people, 
sitting with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger ? 

“Are we grown old again, so soon?” cried they, 
dolefully. 

In truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed 
merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The 
delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes! 
they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, 
that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her 
skinny hands before her face, and wished that the 
coffin lid were over it, since it could be no longer 
beautiful. 

“ Yes, friends, ye are old again,” said Dr. Heideg¬ 
ger, “and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on 
the ground. Well — I bemoan it not; for if the fount¬ 
ain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to 
bathe my lips in it — no, though its delirium were for 
years instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have 
taught me! ” 


DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT. 271 


But the doctor’s four friends had taught no such 
lesson to themselves. They resolved forthwith to 
make a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning, 
noon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth. 

Note. — In an English review, not long since, I have been accused 
of plagiarizing the idea of this story from a chapter in one of the nov¬ 
els of Alexandre Dumas. There has undoubtedly been a plagiarism 
on one side or the other; hut as my story was written a good deal 
more than twenty years ago, and as the novel is of considerably more 
recent date, I take pleasure in thinking that M. Dumas has done me 
the honor to appropriate one of the fanciful conceptions of my earlier 
days. He is heartily welcome to it; nor is it the only instance, by 
many, in which the great French romancer has exercised the privi¬ 
lege of commanding genius by confiscating the intellectual property 
of less famous people to his own use and behoof. 

September, 1860 . 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE. 


I. 

HOWE’S MASQUERADE. 

One afternoon, last summer, while walking along 
Washington Street, my eye was attracted by a sign¬ 
board protruding over a narrow archway, nearly oppo¬ 
site the Old South Church. The sign represented the 
front of a stately edifice, which was designated as the 
“ Old Province House, kept by Thomas W aite.” 
I was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long en¬ 
tertained, of visiting and rambling over the mansion 
of the old royal governors of Massachusetts ; and en¬ 
tering the arched passage, which penetrated through 
the middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps trans¬ 
ported me from the busy heart of modern Boston 
into a small and secluded court-yard. One side of 
this space was occupied by the square front of the 
Province House, three stories high, and surmounted 
by a cupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian was 
discernible, with his bow bent and his arrow on the 
string, as if aiming at the weathercock on the spire 
of the Old South. The figure has kept this attitude 
for seventy years or more, ever since good Deacon 
Drowne, a cunning carver of wood, first stationed him 
on his long sentinel’s watch over the city. 

The Province House is constructed of brick, which 
seems recently to have been overlaid with a coat of 
light-colored paint. A flight of red freestone steps, 


HOWE’S MASQUERADE. 


273 



fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron, 
ascends from the court-yard to the spacious porch, 
over which is a balcony, with an iron balustrade of 
similar pattern and workmanship to that beneath. 
These letters and figures —16 P. S. 79 — are wrought 
into the iron work of the balcony, and probably ex¬ 
press the date of the edifice, with the initials of its 
founder’s name. A wide door with double leaves ad¬ 
mitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of which 
is the entrance to the bar-room. 

It was in this apartment, I presume, that the an¬ 
cient governors held their levees, with vice-regal pomp, 
surrounded by the military men, the councillors, the 
judges, and other officers of the crown, while all the 
loyalty of the province thronged to do them honor. 
But the room, in its present condition, cannot boast 
even of faded magnificence. The panelled wainscot 
is covered with dingy paint, and acquires a duskier 
hue from the deep shadow into which the Province 
House is thrown by the brick block that shuts it in 
from Washington Street. A ray of sunshine never 
visits this apartment any more than the glare of the 
festal torches, which have been extinguished from the 
era of the Revolution. The most venerable and orna¬ 
mental object is a chimney-piece set round with Dutch 
tiles of blue-figured China, representing scenes from 
Scripture; and, for aught I know, the lady of Pownall 
or Bernard may have sat beside this fire-place, and 
told her children the story of each blue tile. A bar 
in modern style, well replenished with decanters, bot¬ 
tles, cigar boxes, and net-work bags of lemons, and 
provided with a beer pump and a soda fount, extends 
along one side of the room. At my entrance, an eld¬ 
erly person was smacking his lips with a zest which 

VOL. i. 18 


274 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


satisfied me that the cellars of the Province House 
still hold good liquor, though doubtless of other vint¬ 
ages than were quaffed by the old governors. After 
sipping a glass of port sangaree, prepared by the skil¬ 
ful hands of Mr. Thomas Waite, I besought that wor¬ 
thy successor and representative of so many historic 
personages to conduct me over their time honored 
mansion. 

He readily complied; but, to confess the truth, I 
was forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination, 
in order to find aught that was interesting in a house 
which, without its historic associations, would have 
seemed merely such a tavern as is usually favored by 
the custom of decent city boarders, and old-fashioned 
country gentlemen. The chambers, which were prob¬ 
ably spacious in former times, are now cut up by 
partitions, and subdivided into little nooks, each af¬ 
fording scanty room for the narrow bed and chair 
and dressing-table of a single lodger. The great 
staircase, however, may be termed, without much 
hyperbole, a feature of grandeur and magnificence. 
It winds through the midst of the house by flights of 
broad steps, each flight terminating in a square land¬ 
ing-place, whence the ascent is continued towards the 
cupola. A carved balustrade, freshly painted in the 
lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, bor¬ 
ders the staircase with its quaintly twisted and inter¬ 
twined pillars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs the 
military boots, or perchance the gouty shoes, of many 
a governor have trodden, as the wearers mounted to 
the cupola, which afforded them so wide a view over 
their metropolis and the surrounding country. The 
cupola is an octagon, with several windows, and a door 
opening upon the roof. From this station, as I pleased 


HOWE'S MASQUERADE. 


275 


myself with imagining, Gage may have beheld his dis¬ 
astrous victory on Bunker Hill (unless one of the tri¬ 
mountains intervened), and Howe have marked the 
approaches of Washington’s besieging army; although 
the buildings since erected in the vicinity have shut 
out almost every object, save the steeple of the Old 
South, which seems almost within arm’s length. De¬ 
scending from the cupola, I paused in the garret to 
observe the ponderous white-oak framework, so much 
more massive than the frames of modern houses, and 
thereby resembling an antique skeleton. The brick 
walls, the materials of which were imported from 
Holland, and the timbers of the mansion, are still as 
sound as ever ; but the floors and other interior parts 
being greatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut the 
whole, and build a new house within the ancient frame 
and brick work. Among other inconveniences of the 
present edifice, mine host mentioned that any jar or 
motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of 
the ceiling of one chamber upon the floor of that be¬ 
neath it. 

We stepped forth from the great front window into 
the balcony, where, in old times, it was doubtless the 
custom of the king’s representative to show himself to 
a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up 
hats with stately bendings of his dignified person. In 
those days the front of the Province House looked 
upon the street; and the whole site now occupied by 
the brick range of stores, as well as the present court' 
yard, was laid out in grass plats, overshadowed by 
trees and bordered by a wrought-iron fence. Now, 
the old aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage 
behind an upstart modern building; at one of the back 
windows I observed some pretty tailoresses, sewing 


276 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and chatting and laughing, with now and then a care¬ 
less glance towards the balcony. Descending thence, 
we again entered the bar-room, where the elderly gen¬ 
tleman above mentioned, the smack of whose lips had 
spoken so favorably for Mr. Waite’s good liquor, was 
still lounging in his chair. He seemed to be, if not a 
lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the house, who 
might be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, 
his summer seat at the open window, and his prescrip¬ 
tive corner at the winter’s fireside. Being of a socia- 
ble aspect, I ventured to address him with a remark 
calculated to draw forth his historical reminiscences, 
if any such were in his mind; and it gratified me to 
discover, that, between memory and tradition, the old 
gentleman was really possessed of some very pleasant 
gossip about the Province House. The portion of his 
talk which chiefly interested me was the outline of the 
following legend. He professed to have received it at 
one or two removes from an eye-witness; but this de¬ 
rivation, together with the lapse of time, must have 
afforded opportunities for many variations of the nar¬ 
rative ; so that despairing of literal and absolute truth, 
I have not scrupled to make such further changes as 
seemed conducive to the reader’s profit and delight. 


At one of the entertainments given at the Province 
House, during the latter part of the siege of Boston, 
there passed a scene which has never yet been satis¬ 
factorily explained. The officers of the British army, 
and the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom 
were collected within the beleaguered town, had been 
invited to a masked ball; for it was the policy of Sir 
William Howe to hide the distress and danger of the 



HOWE'S MASQUERADE. 


277 


period, and the desperate aspect of the siege, under 
an ostentation of festivity. The spectacle of this even¬ 
ing, if the oldest members of the provincial court cir¬ 
cle might be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous 
affair that had occurred in the annals of the gov¬ 
ernment. The brilliantly-lighted apartments were 
thronged with figures that seemed to have stepped 
from the dark canvas of historic portraits, or to have 
flitted forth from the magic pages of romance, or at 
least to have flown hither from one of the London 
theatres, without a change of garments. Steeled 
knights of the Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen 
Elizabeth, and high-ruffled ladies of her court, were 
mingled with characters of comedy, such as a party- 
colored Merry Andrew, jingling his cap and bells; a 
Falstaff, almost as provocative of laughter as his pro¬ 
totype ; and a Don Quixote, with a bean pole for a 
lance, and a pot lid for a shield. 

But the broadest merriment was excited by a group 
of figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals, 
which seemed to have been purchased at a military 
rag fair, or pilfered from some receptacle of the cast¬ 
off clothes of both the French and British armies. 
Portions of their attire had probably been worn at the 
siege of Louisburg, and the coats of most recent cut 
might have been rent and tattered by sword, ball, or 
bayonet, as long ago as Wolfe’s victory. One of 
these worthies — a tall, lank figure, brandishing a 
rusty sword of immense longitude — purported to be 
no less a personage than General George Washing¬ 
ton ; and the other principal officers of the American 
army, such as Gates, Lee, Putnam, Schuyler, Ward 
and Heath, were represented by similar scarecrows. 
An interview in the mock heroic style, between the 


278 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


rebel warriors and the British commander-in-chief, 
was received with immense applause, which came 
loudest of all from the loyalists of the colony. There 
was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eye¬ 
ing these antics sternly and scornfully, at once with a 
frown and a bitter smile. 

It was an old man, formerly of high station and 
great repute in the province, and who had been a very 
famous soldier in his day. Some surprise had been 
expressed that a person of Colonel Joliffe’s known 
whig principles, though now too old to take an active 
part in the contest, should have remained in Boston 
during the siege, and especially that he should consent 
to show himself in the mansion of Sir William Howe. 
But thither he had come, with a fair granddaughter 
under his arm ; and there, amid all the mirth and 
buffoonery, stood this stern old figure, the best sus¬ 
tained character in the masquerade, because so well 
representing the antique spirit of his native land. 
The other guests affirmed that Colonel Joliffe’s black 
puritanical scowl threw a shadow round about him ; 
although in spite of his sombre influence their gayety 
continued to blaze higher, like — (an ominous com¬ 
parison) — the flickering brilliancy of a lamp which 
has but a little while to burn. Eleven strokes, full 
half an hour ago, had pealed from the clock of the 
Old South, when a rumor was circulated among the 
company that some new spectacle or pageant was 
about to be exhibited, which should put a fitting close 
to the splendid festivities of the night. 

“ What new jest has your Excellency in hand ? ” 
asked the Rev. Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian 
scruples had not kept him from the entertainment. 
“Trust me, sir, I have already laughed more than 


HOWE’S MASQUERADE. 


279 


beseems my cloth at your Homeric confabulation with 
yonder ragamuffin General of the rebels. One other 
such fit of merriment, and I must throw off my cler¬ 
ical wig and band.” 

“ Not so, good Doctor Byles,” answered Sir Wil¬ 
liam Howe ; “ if mirth were a crime, you had never 
gained your doctorate in divinity. As to this new 
foolery, I know no more about it than yourself; per¬ 
haps not so much. Honestly now, Doctor, have you 
not stirred up the sober brains of some of your coun¬ 
trymen to enact a scene in our masquerade ? ” 

“ Perhaps,” slyly remarked the granddaughter of 
Colonel Joliffe, whose high spirit had been stung by 
many taunts against New England, — “ perhaps we 
are to have a mask of allegorical figures. Victory, 
with trophies from Lexington and Bunker Hill — 
Plenty, with her overflowing horn, to typify the pres¬ 
ent abundance in this good town — and Glory, with a 
wreath for his Excellency’s brow.” 

Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would 
have answered with one of his darkest frowns had 
they been uttered by lips that wore a beard. He was 
spared the necessity of a retort, by a singular inter¬ 
ruption. A sound of music was heard without the 
house, as if proceeding from a full band of military 
instruments stationed in the street, playing not such a 
festal strain as was suited to the occasion, but a slow 
funeral march. The drums appeared to be muffled, 
arid the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath, which 
at once hushed the merriment of the auditors, filling 
all with wonder, and some with apprehension. The 
idea occurred to many that either the funeral proces 
sion of some great personage had halted in front of 
the Province House, or that a corpse, in a velvet 


280 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


covered and gorgeously-decorated coffin, was about to 
be borne from tlie portal. After listening a moment, 
Sir William Howe called, in a stern voice, to the 
leader of the musicians, who had hitherto enlivened 
the entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies. 
The man was drum-major to one of the British regi¬ 
ments. 

“ Dighton,” demanded the general, “ what means 
this foolery ? Bid your band silence that dead march 
— or, by my word, they shall have sufficient cause for 
their lugubrious strains f Silence it, sirrah ! ” 

“Please your honor,” answered the drum-major, 
whose rubicund visage had lost all its color, “ the fault 
is none of mine. I and my band are all here together, 
and I question whether there be a man of us that could 
play that march without book. 1 never heard it but 
once before, and that was at the funeral of his late 
Majesty, King George the Second.” 

u Well, well! ” said Sir William Howe, recovering 
his composure — “ it is the prelude to some masquer¬ 
ading antic. Let it pass.” 

A figure now presented itself, but among the many 
fantastic masks that were dispersed through the apart¬ 
ments none could tell precisely from whence it came. / 
It was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black serge, 
and having the aspect of a steward or principal do¬ 
mestic in the household of a nobleman or great Eng¬ 
lish landholder. This figure advanced to the outer 
door of the mansion, and throwing both its leaves 
wide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked 
back towards the grand staircase as if expecting some 
person to descend. At the same time the music in 
the street sounded a loud and doleful summons. The 
eyes of Sir William Howe and his guests being d> 


HOWE'S MASQUERADE. 


281 


rected to the staircase, there appeared, on the upper¬ 
most landing-place that was discernible from the bot¬ 
tom, several personages descending towards the door. 
The foremost was a man of stern visage, wearing a 
steeple-crowned hat and a skull-cap beneath it; a dark 
cloak, and huge wrinkled boots that came half-way up 
his legs. Under liis arm was a rolled-up banner, 
which seemed to be the banner of England, but 
strangely rent and torn ; he had a sword in his right 
hand, and grasped a Bible in his left. The next figure 
was of milder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a 
broad rulf, over which descended a beard, a gown of 
wrought velvet, and a doublet and hose of black satin. 
He carried a roll of manuscript in his hand. Close 
behind these two came a young man of very striking 
countenance and demeanor, with deep thought and 
contemplation on his brow, and perhaps a flash of en¬ 
thusiasm in his eye. His garb, like that of his prede¬ 
cessors, was of an antique fashion, and there was a 
stain of blood upon his ruff. In the same group with 
these were three or four others, all men of dignity and 
evident command, and bearing themselves like person¬ 
ages who were accustomed to the gaze of the multitude. 
It was the idea of the beholders that these figures 
went to join the mysterious funeral that had halted in 
front of the Province House; yet that supposition 
seemed to be contradicted by the air of triumph with 
which they waved their hands, as they crossed the 
threshold and vanished through the portal. 

“ In the devil’s name what is this ? ” muttered Sir 
William Howe to a gentleman beside him; u a pro¬ 
cession of the regicide judges of King Charles the 
martyr ? ” 

“These,” said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence a! 


282 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


most for the first time that evening, — “ these, if I in¬ 
terpret them aright, are the Puritan governors — the 
rulers of the old original Democracy of Massachusetts. 
Endicott, with the banner from which he had torn the 
symbol of subjection, and Winthrop, and Sir Henry 
Vane, and Dudley, Haynes, Bellingham, and Lev- 
erett.” 

“ Why had that young man a stain of blood upon 
his ruff ? ” asked Miss Joliffe. 

“ Because, in after years,” answered her grand¬ 
father, “he laid down the wisest head in England 
upon the block for the principles of liberty.” 

“ Will not your Excellency order out the guard?” 
whispered Lord Percy, who, with other British officers, 
had now assembled round the General. “ There may 
be a plot under this mummery.” 

“ Tush ! we have nothing to fear,” carelessly replied 
Sir William Howe. “ There can be no worse treason 
in the matter than a jest, and that somewhat of the 
dullest. Even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best 
policy would be to laugh it off. See — here come 
more of these gentry.” 

Another group of characters had now partly de¬ 
scended the staircase. The first was a venerable and 
white-bearded patriarch, who cautiously felt his way 
downward with a staff. Treading hastily behind him, 
and stretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp 
the old man’s shoulder, came a tall, soldier-like figure, 
equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a bright breast¬ 
plate, and a long sword, which rattled against the 
stairs. Next was seen a stout man, dressed in rich 
and courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his 
gait had the swinging motion of a seaman’s walk 
and chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly 


HOWE'S MASQUERADE. 


283 


grew wrathful, and was heard to mutter an oath. He 
was followed by a noble-looking personage in a curled 
wig, such as are represented in the portraits of Queen 
Anne’s time and earlier ; and the breast of his coat 
was decorated with an embroidered star. While ad¬ 
vancing to the door, he bowed to the right hand and 
to the left, in a very gracious and insinuating style; 
but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early Puri¬ 
tan governors, he seemed to wring his hands with 
sorrow. 

“Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Doctor 
Byles,” said Sir William Howe. “ What worthies are 
these?” 

“ If it please your Excellency they lived somewhat 
before my day,” answered the doctor; “ but doubtless 
our friend, the Colonel, has been hand and glove with 
them.” 

“ Their living faces I never looked upon,” said 
Colonel Joliffe, gravely; “ although I have spoken 
face to face with many rulers of this land, and shall 
greet yet another with an old man’s blessing ere I die. 
But we talk of these figures. I take the venerable 
patriarch to be Bradstreet, the last of the Puritans, 
who was governor at ninety, or thereabouts. The next 
is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any New England 
school-boy will tell you; and therefore the people cast 
him down from his high seat into a dungeon. Then 
comes Sir William Phipps, shepherd, cooper, sea-cap¬ 
tain, and governor — may many of his countrymen rise 
as high from as low an origin! Lastly, you saw the 
gracious Earl of Bellamont, who ruled us under King 
William.” 

“But what is the meaning of it all?” asked Lord 
Percy. 



284 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“Now, were I a rebel,” said Miss Joliffe, half 
aloud, U I might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient 
governors had been summoned to form the funeral 
procession of royal authority in New England.” 

Several other figures were now seen at the turn of 
the staircase. The one in advance had a thoughtful, 
anxious, and somewhat crafty expression of face, and 
in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently 
the result both of an ambitious spirit and of long con¬ 
tinuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable of 
cringing to a greater than himself. A few steps be¬ 
hind came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered uni¬ 
form, cut in a fashion old enough to have been worn 
by the Duke of Marlborough. His nose had a rubi¬ 
cund tinge, which, together with the twinkle of his 
eye, might have marked him as a lover of the wine 
cup and good fellowship; notwithstanding which to¬ 
kens he appeared ill at ease, and often glanced around 
him as if apprehensive of some secret mischief. Next 
came a portly gentleman, wearing a coat of shaggy 
cloth, lined with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewd¬ 
ness, and humor in his face, and a folio volume under 
his arm; but his aspect was that of a man vexed and 
tormented beyond all patience, and harassed almost 
to death. He went hastily down, and was followed 
by a dignified person, dressed in a purple velvet suit, 
with very rich embroidery; his demeanor would have 
possessed much stateliness, only that a grievous fit of 
the gout compelled him to hobble from stair to stair, 
with contortions of face and body. When Dr. Byles 
beheld this figure on the staircase, he shivered as with 
an ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly, until 
the gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made 
^ gesture of anguish and despair, and vanished into 


HOWE MA SQUERABE. 285 

the outer gloom, whither the funeral music summoned 
him. 

“ Governor Belcher! — my old patron! — in his 
very shape and dress! ” gasped Doctor Byles. “This 
is an awful mockery ! ” 

“ A tedious foolery, rather,” said Sir William Howe, 
with an air of indifference. “ But who were the three 
that preceded him? ” 

“ Governor Dudley, a cunning politician — yet his 
craft once brought him to a prison,” replied Colonel 
Joliffe. “ Governor Shute, formerly a Colonel under 
Marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of 
the province; and learned Governor Burnet, whom 
the legislature tormented into a mortal fever.” 

“Methinks they were miserable men, these royal 
governors of Massachusetts,” observed Miss Joliffe. 
“ Heavens, how dim the light grows! ” 

It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which 
illuminated the staircase now burned dim and dusk- 
ily: so that several figures, which passed hastily down 
the stairs and went forth from the porch, appeared 
rather like shadows than persons of fleshly substance. 
Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors 
of the contiguous apartments, watching the progress 
of this singular pageant, with various emotions of 
anger, contempt, or half-acknowledged fear, but still 
with an anxious curiosity. The shapes which now 
seemed hastening to join the mysterious procession 
were recognized rather by striking peculiarities of 
dress, or broad characteristics of manner, than by any 
perceptible resemblance of features to their proto¬ 
types. Their faces, indeed, were invariably kept in 
deep shadow. But Doctor Byles, and other gentle¬ 
men who had long been familiar with the successive 


286 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


rulers of the province, were heard to whisper the 
names of Shirley, of Pownall, of Sir Francis Bernard, 
and of the well-remembered Hutchinson; thereby con¬ 
fessing that the actors, whoever they might be, in this 
spectralmarch of governors, had succeeded in putting 
on some distant portraiture of the real personages. 
As they vanished from the door, still did these shad¬ 
ows toss their arms into the gloom of night, with a 
dread expression of woe. Following the mimic repre¬ 
sentative of Hutchinson came a military figure, hold¬ 
ing before his face the cocked hat which he had taken 
from his powdered head; but his epaulettes and other 
insignia of rank were those of a general officer, and 
something in his mien reminded the beholders of one 
who had recently been master of the Province House, 
and chief of all the land. 

“ The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass,” 
exclaimed Lord Percy turning pale. 

“No, surely,’" cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysteric¬ 
ally ; “ it could not be Gage, or Sir William would 
have greeted his old comrade in arms! Perhaps he 
will not suffer the next to pass unchallenged.” 

“ Of that be assured, young lady,” answered Sir 
William Howe, fixing his eyes, with a very marked 
expression, upon the immovable visage of her grand¬ 
father. “ I have long enough delayed to pay the cere¬ 
monies of a host to these departing guests. The next 
that takes his leave shall receive due courtesy.” 

A wild and dreary burst of music came through the 
open door. It seemed as if the procession, which had 
been gradually filling up its ranks, were now about to 
move, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets, 
and roll of the muffled drums, were a call to some 
loiterer to make haste. Many eyes, by an irresistible 


HOWE'S MASQUERADE. 


287 


Impulse, were turned upon Sir William Howe, as if 
it were he whom the dreary music summoned to the 
funeral of departed power. 

“ See ! — here comes the last! ” whispered Miss 
Joliffe, pointing her tremulous finger to the staircase. 

A figure had come into view as if descending the 
stairs; although so dusky was the region whence it 
emerged, some of the spectators fancied that they had 
seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid 
the gloom. Downward the figure came, with a stately 
and martial tread, and reaching the lowest stair was 
observed to be a tall man, booted and wrapped in a 
military cloak, which was drawn up around the face 
so as to meet the flapped brim of a laced hat. The 
features, therefore, were completely hidden. But the 
British officers deemed that they had seen that mili¬ 
tary cloak before, and even recognized the frayed em¬ 
broidery on the collar, as well as the gilded scabbard 
of a sword which protruded from the folds of the 
cloak, and glittered in a vivid gleam of light. Apart 
from these trifling particulars, there were characteris¬ 
tics of gait and bearing which impelled the wondering 
guests to glance from the shrouded figure to Sir Wil¬ 
liam Howe, as if to satisfy themselves that their host 
had not suddenly vanished from the midst of them. 

With a dark flush of wrath upon his brow they saw 
the General draw his sword and advance to meet the 
figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one 
pace upon the floor. 

“ Villain, unmuffle yourself ! ’ cried he. “ You pass 
no farther! ” 

The figure, without blenching a hair’s breadth from 
the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a 
solemn pause and lowered the cape of the cloak from 


288 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators 
to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had 
evidently seen enough. The sternness of his counte¬ 
nance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not 
horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, 
and let fall his sword upon the floor. The martial 
shape again drew the cloak about his features and 
passed on; but reaching the threshold, with his back 
towards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot 
and shake his clinched hands in the air. It was after¬ 
wards affirmed that Sir William Howe had repeated 
that selfsame gesture of rage and sorrow, when, for 
the last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed 
through the portal of the Province House. 

“ Hark! —the procession moves,” said Miss Joliffe. 

The music was dying away along the street, and its 
dismal strains were mingled with the knell of mid¬ 
night from the steeple of the Old South, and with the 
roar of artillery, which announced that the beleaguer¬ 
ing army of Washington had intrenched itself upon 
a nearer height than before. As the deep boom of the 
cannon smote upon his ear, Colonel Joliffe raised him¬ 
self to the full height of his aged form, and smiled 
sternly on the British General. 

“ Would your Excellency inquire further into the 
mystery of the pageant ? ” said he. 

“ Take care of your gray head ! ” cried Sir William 
Howe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip. “ It has 
stood too long on a traitor’s shoulders! ” 

“ You must make haste to chop it off, then,” calmly 
replied the Colonel; “ for a few hours longer, and not 
all the power <?f Sir William Howe, nor of his master, 
shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. The em¬ 
pire of Britain in this ancient province is at its last 


HOWE'S MASQUERADE. 


289 


gasp to-night; — almost while I speak it is a dead 
corpse; — and methinks the shadows of the old gov¬ 
ernors are fit mourners at its funeral! ” 

With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, 
and drawing his granddaughter’s arm within his own, 
retired from the last festival that a British ruler ever 
held in the old province of Massachusetts Bay. It 
was supposed that the Colonel and the young lady 
possessed some secret intelligence in regard to the 
mysterious pageant of that night. However this might 
be, such knowledge has never become general. The 
actors in the scene have vanished into deeper obscur¬ 
ity than even that wild Indian band who scattered the 
cargoes of the tea ships on the waves, and gained a 
place in history, yet left no names. But superstition, 
among other legends of this mansion, repeats the won¬ 
drous tale, that on the anniversary night of Britain’s 
discomfiture the ghosts of the ancient governors of 
Massachusetts still glide through the portal of the 
Province House. And, last of all, comes a figure 
shrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clinched 
hands into the air, and stamping his iron-shod boots 
upon the broad freestone steps, with a semblance of 
feverish despair, but without the sound of a foot-tramp. 


When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentle¬ 
man were hushed, I drew a long breath and looked 
round the room, striving, with the best energy of my 
imagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic 
grandeur over the realities of the scene. But my 
nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar smoke, clouds of 
which the narrator had emitted by way of visible em¬ 
blem, I suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale. 

VOL. I 19 



290 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully dis¬ 
turbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of 
whiskey punch, which Mr. Thomas Waite was min¬ 
gling for a customer. Nor did it add to the pictur¬ 
esque appearance of the panelled walls that the slate 
of the Brookline stage was suspended against them, 
instead of the armorial escutcheon of some far-de¬ 
scended governor. A stage-driver sat at one of the 
windows, reading a penny paper of the day — the 
Boston Tunes — and presenting a figure which could 
nowise be brought into any picture of “ Times in Bos¬ 
ton” seventy or a hundred years ago. On the win¬ 
dow seat lay a bundle, neatly done up in brown paper, 
the direction of which I had the idle curiosity to read. 
“ Miss Susan Huggins, at the Pkovince House.” 
A pretty chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is des¬ 
perately hard work, when we attempt to throw the 
spell of hoar antiquity over localities with which the 
living world, and the day that is passing over us, have 
aught to do. Yet, as I glanced at the stately stair¬ 
case down which the procession of the old governors 
had descended, and as I emerged through the vener¬ 
able portal whence their figures had preceded me, it 
gladdened me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. 
Then, diving through the narrow archway, a few 
strides transported me into the densest throng of 
Washington Street. 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE. 


II. 

EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT. 

The old legendary guest of the Province House 
abode in my remembrance from midsummer till Janu¬ 
ary. One idle evening last winter, confident that he 
would be found in the snuggest corner of the bar¬ 
room, I resolved to pay him another visit, hoping to 
deserve well of my country by snatching from oblivion 
some else unheard-of fact of history. The night was 
chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a 
gale of wind, which whistled along Wasliington Street, 
causing the gas-lights to flare and flicker within the 
lamps. As I hurried onward, my fancy was busy with 
a comparison between the present aspect of the street 
and that which it probably wore when the British gov¬ 
ernors inhabited the mansion whither I was now going. 
Brick edifices in those times were few, till a succession 
of destructive fires had swept, and swept again, the 
wooden dwellings and warehouses from the most pop¬ 
ulous quarters of the town. The buildings stood in¬ 
sulated and independent, not, as now, merging their 
separate existences into connected ranges, with a front 
of tiresome identity, — but each possessing features of 
its own, as if the owner’s individual taste had shaped 
it, — and the whole presenting a picturesque irregular¬ 
ity, the absence of which is hardly compensated by any 
beauties of our modern architecture. Such a scene, 


292 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


dimly vanishing from the eye by the ray of here and 
there a tallow candle, glimmering through the small 
panes of scattered windows, would form a sombre con¬ 
trast to the street as I beheld it, with the gas-lights 
blazing from corner to corner, flaming within the shops, 
and throwing a noonday brightness through the huge 
plates of glass. 

But the black, lowering sky, as I turned my eyes 
upward, wore, doubtless, the same visage as when it 
frowned upon the ante-revolutionary New Englanders. 
The wintry blast had the same shriek that was familiar 
to their ears. The Old South Church, too, still pointed 
its antique spire into the darkness, and was lost be¬ 
tween earth and heaven; and as I passed, its clock, 
which had warned so many generations how transitory 
was their lifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same 
unregarded moral to myself. “ Only seven o’clock,” 
thought I. “ My old friend’s legends will scarcely 
kill the hours ’twixt this and bedtime.” 

Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the court¬ 
yard, the confined precincts of which were made visi¬ 
ble by a lantern over the portal of the Province House, 
On entering the bar-room, I found, as I expected, the 
old tradition monger seated by a special good fire of 
anthracite, compelling clouds of smoke from a corpu¬ 
lent cigar. He recognized me with evident pleasure ; 
for my rare properties as a patient listener invariably 
make me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies 
of narrative propensities. Drawing a chair to the fire, 
I desired mine host to favor us with a glass apiece of 
whiskey punch, which was speedily prepared, steaming 
hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom, a dark-red 
stratum of port wine upon the surface, and a sprink¬ 
ling of nutmeg strewn over all. As we touched oui 


EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT . 293 


glasses together, my legendary friend made himself 
known to me as Mr. Bela Tiffany; and I rejoiced at 
the oddity of the name, because it gave his image and 
character a sort of individuality in my conception. 
The old gentleman’s draught acted as a solvent upon 
his memory, so that it overflowed with tales, traditions, 
anecdotes of famous dead people, and traits of ancient 
manners, some of which were childish as a nurse’s lul¬ 
laby, while others might have been worth the notice of 
the grave historian. Nothing impressed me more than 
a story of a black mysterious picture, which used to 
hang in one of the chambers of the Province House, 
directly above the room where we were now sitting. 
The following is as correct a version of the fact as the 
reader would be likely to obtain from any other source, 
although, assuredly, it has a tinge of romance approach¬ 
ing to the marvellous. 


In one of the apartments of the Province House 
there was long preserved an ancient picture, the frame 
of which was as black as ebony, and the canvas itself 
so dark with age, damp, and smoke, that not a touch 
of the painter’s art could be discerned. Time had 
thrown an impenetrable veil over it, and left to tradi¬ 
tion and fable and conjecture to say what had once 
been there portrayed. During the rule of many suc¬ 
cessive governors, it had hung, by prescriptive and 
undisputed right, over the mantel-piece of the same 
chamber ; and it still kept its place when Lieutenant- 
Governor Hutchinson assumed the administration of 
the province, on the departure of Sir Francis Bernard. 

The Lieutenant-Governor sat, one afternoon, resting 
his head against the carved back of his stately arm- 



294 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


chair, and gazing up thoughtfully at the void blackness 
of the picture. It was scarcely a time for such inactive 
musing, when affairs of the deepest moment required 
the ruler’s decision ; for, within that very hour Hutch¬ 
inson had received intelligence of the arrival of a 
British fleet, bringing three regiments from Halifax 
to overawe the insubordination of the people. These 
troops awaited his permission to occupy the fortress of 
Castle William, and the town itself. Yet, instead of 
affixing his signature to an official order, there sat the 
Lieutenant-Governor, so carefully scrutinizing the black 
waste of canvas that his demeanor attracted the notice 
of two young persons who attended him. One, wearing 
a military dress of buff, was his kinsman, Francis Lin¬ 
coln, the Provincial Captain of Castle William; the 
other, who sat on a low stool beside his chair, was 
Alice Vane, his favorite niece. 

She was clad entirely in white, a pale, ethereal 
creature, who, though a native of New England, had 
been educated abroad, and seemed not merely a stranger 
from another clime, but almost a being from another 
world. For several years, until left an orphan, she had 
dwelt with her father in sunny Italy, and there had ac¬ 
quired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and paint¬ 
ing which she found few opportunities of gratifying 
in the undecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. 
It was said that the early productions of her own pen¬ 
cil exhibited no inferior genius, though, perhaps, the 
rude atmosphere of New England had cramped her 
hand, and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. 
But observing her uncle’s steadfast gaze, which ap¬ 
peared to search through the mist of years to discovei 
the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited. 

“ Is it known, my dear uncle,” inquired she, “ what 


EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 295 


this old picture once represented ? Possibly, could it 
be made visible, it might prove a masterpiece of some 
great artist — else, why has it so long held such a con¬ 
spicuous place ? ” 

As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom (for he 
was as attentive to all the humors and caprices of 
Alice as if she had been his own best-beloved child), 
did not immediately reply, the young Captain of Cas¬ 
tle William took that office upon himself. 

“ This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin,” 
said he, “ has been an heirloom in the Province House 
from time immemorial. As to the painter, I can tell 
you nothing; but, if half the stories told of it be true, 
not one of the great Italian masters has ever produced 
so marvellous a piece of work as that before you.” 

Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the 
strange fables and fantasies which, as it was impossi¬ 
ble to refute them by ocular demonstration, had grown 
to be articles of popular belief, in reference to this 
old picture. One of the wildest, and at the same time 
the best accredited, accounts, stated it to be an origi¬ 
nal and authentic portrait of the Evil One, taken at a 
witch meeting near Salem; and that its strong and 
terrible resemblance had been confirmed by several of 
the confessing wizards and witches, at their trial, in 
open court. It was likewise affirmed that a familiar 
spirit or demon abode behind the blackness of the 
picture, and had shown himself, at seasons of public 
calamity, to more than one of the royal governors 
Shirley, for instance, had beheld this ominous appari 
tion, on the eve of General Abercrombie’s shameful 
and bloody defeat under the walls of Ticonderoga. 
Many of the servants of the Province House had 
caught glimpses of a visage frowning down upon them- 


296 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


at morning or evening twilight, — or in the depths of 
night, while raking up the fire that glimmered on the 
hearth beneath; although, if any were bold enough to 
hold a torch before the picture, it would appear as 
black and undistinguishable as ever. The oldest in¬ 
habitant of Boston recollected that his father, in whose 
days the portrait had not wholly faded out of sight, 
had once looked upon it, but would never suffer him¬ 
self to be questioned as to the face which was there 
represented. In connection with such stories, it was 
remarkable that over the top of the frame there were 
some ragged remnants of black silk, indicating that a 
veil had formerly hung down before the picture, imtil 
the duskiness of time had so effectually concealed it. 
But, after all, it was the most singular part of the 
affair that so many of the pompous governors of Mas¬ 
sachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to re¬ 
main in the state chamber of the Province House. 

44 Some of these fables are really awful,” observed 
Alice Vane, who had occasionally shuddered, as well 
as smiled, while her cousin spoke. 44 It would be al¬ 
most worth while to wipe away the black surface of 
the canvas, since the original picture can hardly be so 
formidable as those which fancy paints instead of it.” 

“ But would it be possible,” inquired her cousin, 
44 to restore this dark picture to its pristine hues ? ” 

44 Such arts are known in Italy,” said Alice. 

The Lieutenant-Governor had roused himself from 
his abstracted mood, and listened with a smile to the 
conversation of his young relatives. Yet his voice 
had something peculiar in its tones when he under¬ 
took the explanation of the mystery. 

44 1 am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the 
legends of which you are so fond,” remarked he; 44 but 


EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 297 


my antiquarian researches have long since made me 
acquainted with the subject of this picture — if picture 
it can be called — which is no more visible, nor ever 
will be, than the face of the long buried man whom 
it once represented. It was the portrait of Edward 
Randolph, the founder of this house, a person famous 
in the history of New England.” 

“ Of that Edward Randolph,” exclaimed Captain 
Lincoln, “ who obtained the repeal of the first pro¬ 
vincial charter, under which our forefathers had en¬ 
joyed almost democratic privileges! He that was 
styled the arch-enemy of New England, and whose 
memory is still held in detestation as the destroyer of 
our liberties! ” 

“It was the same Randolph,” answered Hutchin¬ 
son, moving uneasily in his chair. “ It was his lot to 
taste the bitterness of popular odium.” 

“ Our annals tell us,” continued the Captain of 
Castle William, “ that the curse of the people fol¬ 
lowed this Randolph where he went, and wrought evil 
in all the subsequent events of his life, and that its 
effect was seen likewise in the manner of his death. 
They say, too, that the inward misery of that curse 
worked itself outward, and was visible on the wretched 
man’s countenance, making it too horrible to be looked 
upon. If so, and if this picture truly represented his 
aspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness 
has gathered over it.” 

“ These traditions are folly to one who has proved, 
as I have, how little of historic truth lies at the bot¬ 
tom,” said the Lieutenant-Governor. “ As regards 
the life and character of Edward Randolph, too im¬ 
plicit credence has been given to Dr. Cotton Mather, 
who — I must say it, though some of his blood runs 


298 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


in my veins — has filled our early history with old 
women’s tales, as fanciful and extravagant as those of 
Greece or Rome.” 

“ And yet,” whispered Alice Vane, “may not such 
fables have a moral ? And, methinks, if the visage 
of this portrait be so dreadful, it is not without a 
cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the 
Province House. When the riders feel themselves 
irresponsible, it were well that they should be re¬ 
minded of the awful weight of a people’s curse.” 

The Lieutenant-Governor started, and gazed for a 
moment at his niece, as if her girlish fantasies had 
struck upon some feeling in his own breast, which all 
his policy or principles could not entirely subdue. 
He knew, indeed, that Alice, in spite of her foreign 
education, retained the native sympathies of a New 
England girl. 

“ Peace, silly child,” cried he, at last, more harshly 
than he had ever before addressed the gentle Alice. 
“ The rebuke of a king is more to be dreaded than 
the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude. Captain 
Lincoln, it is decided. The fortress of Castle Wil¬ 
liam must be occupied by the royal troops. The two 
remaining regiments shall be billeted in the town, or 
encamped upon the Common. It is time, after years 
of tumult, and almost rebellion, that his majesty’s gov¬ 
ernment should have a wall of strength about it.” 

“ Trust, sir — trust yet awhile to the loyalty of the 
people,” said Captain Lincoln ; “ nor teach them that 
they can ever be on other terms with British soldiers 
than those of brotherhood, as when they fought side 
by side through the French War. Do not convert the 
streets of your native town into a camp. Think twice 
before you give up old Castle William, the key of 


EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 299 


jhe province, into other keeping than that of true-born 
New Englanders.” 

“ Young man, it is decided,” repeated Hutchinson, 
rising from his chair. “ A British officer will be in 
attendance this evening, to receive the necessary in¬ 
structions for the disposal of the troops. Your pres¬ 
ence also will be required. Till then, farewell.” 

With these words the Lieutenant-Governor hastily 
left the room, while Alice and her cousin more slowly 
followed, whispering together, and once pausing to 
glance back at the mysterious picture. The Captain 
of Castle William fancied that the girl’s air and mien 
were such as might have belonged to one of those 
spirits of fable — fairies, or creatures of a more antique 
mythology — who sometimes mingled their agency 
with mortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensi¬ 
bility to human weal or woe. As he held the door for 
her to pass, Alice beckoned to the picture and smiled. 

“ Come forth, dark and evil Shape ! ” cried she. 
“ It is thine hour ! ” 

In the evening, Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson 
sat in the same chamber where the foregoing scene 
had occurred, surrounded by several persons whose 
various interests had summoned them together. There 
were the Selectmen of Boston, plain, patriarchal fa¬ 
thers of the people, excellent representatives of the 
old puritanical founders, whose sombre strength had 
stamped so deep an impress upon the New England 
character. Contrasting with these were one or two 
members of Council, richly dressed in the white wigs, 
the embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of 
the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display 
of courtier-like ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, 
was a major of the British army, awaiting the Lieu 


300 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


tenant-Governor’s orders for the landing of the troops, 
which still remained on board the transports. The 
Captain of Castle William stood beside Hutchinson’s 
chair with folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at 
the British officer, by whom he was soon to be super¬ 
seded in his command. On a table, in the centre of 
the chamber, stood a branched silver candlestick, 
throwing down the glow of half a dozen wax-lights 
upon a paper apparently ready for the Lieutenant- 
Governor’s signature. 

Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of 
the window curtains, which fell from the ceiling to 
the floor, was seen the white drapery of a lady’s robe. 
It may appear strange that Alice Vane should have 
been there at such a time; but there was something 
so childlike, so wayward, in her singular character, so 
apart from ordinary rules, that her presence did not 
surprise the few who noticed it. Meantime, the chair¬ 
man of the Selectmen was addressing to the Lieuten¬ 
ant-Governor a long and solemn protest against the 
reception of the British troops into the town. 

“ And if your Honor,” concluded this excellent but 
somewhat prosy old gentleman, “ shall see fit to per¬ 
sist in bringing these mercenary sworders and mus¬ 
keteers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the 
responsibility. Think, sir, while there is yet time, 
that if one drop of blood be shed, that blood shall be 
an eternal stain upon your Honor’s memory. You, 
sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of our 
forefathers. The more to be desired is it, therefore, 
that yourself should deserve honorable mention, as a 
true patriot and upright ruler, when your own doings 
shall be written down in history.” 

“ I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural 


EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 301 


desire to stand well in the annals of my country,’’ 
replied Hutchinson, controlling his impatience into 
courtesy, “ nor know I any better method of attaining 
that end than by withstanding the merely temporary 
spirit of mischief, which, with your pardon, seems to 
have infected elder men than myself. Would you 
have me wait till the mob shall sack the Province 
House, as they did my private mansion ? Trust me, 
sir, the time may come when you will be glad to flee 
for protection to the king’s banner, the raising of 
which is now so distasteful to you.” 

“ Yes,” said the British major, who was impatiently 
expecting the Lieutenant-Governor's orders. “The 
demagogues of this Province have raised the devil 
and cannot lay him again. We will exorcise him, 
in God’s name and the king’s.” 

“If you meddle with the devil, take care of his 
claws! ” answered the Captain of Castle William, 
stirred by the taunt against his countrymen. 

“Craving your pardon, young sir,'’ said the ven¬ 
erable Selectman, “ let not an evil spirit enter into 
your words. We will strive against the oppressor 
with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have 
done. Like them, moreover, we will submit to what¬ 
ever lot a wise Providence may send us, — always, af¬ 
ter our own best exertions to amend it.” 

“ And there peep forth the devil’s claws! ” muttered 
Hutchinson, who well understood the nature of Puri¬ 
tan submission. “This matter shall be expedited 
forthwith. When there shall be a sentinel at every 
corner, and a court of guard before the town house, a 
loyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. What 
to me is the outcry of a mob, in this remote province 
of the realm ? The king is my master, and England 


302 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


is my country! Upheld by their armed strength, I 
set my foot upon the rabble, and defy them! ” 

He snatched a pen, and was about to affix his sig¬ 
nature to the paper that lay on the table, when the 
Captain of Castle William placed his hand upon his 
shoulder. The freedom of the action, so contrary to 
the ceremonious respect which was then considered 
due to rank and dignity, awakened general surprise, 
and in none more than in the Lieutenant-Governor 
himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his 
young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite 
wall. Hutchinson’s eye followed the signal; and he 
saw, what had hitherto been unobserved, that a black 
silk curtain was suspended before the mysterious pict¬ 
ure, so as completely to conceal it. His thoughts im¬ 
mediately recurred to the scene of the preceding af¬ 
ternoon ; and, in his surprise, confused by indistinct 
emotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had 
an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudly upon 
her. 

“ Alice! —come hither, Alice! ” 

No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided 
from her station, and pressing one hand across her 
eyes, with the other snatched away the sable curtain 
that concealed the portrait. An exclamation of sur¬ 
prise burst from every beholder; but the Lieutenant- 
Governor’s voice had a tone of horror. 

“ By Heaven! ” said he, in a low, inward murmur, 
speaking rather to himself than to those around him, 
“ if the spirit of Edward Randolph were to appear 
among us from the place of torment, he could not 
wear more of the terrors of hell upon his face ! ” 

“ For some wise end,” said the aged Selectman, sol¬ 
emnly, “hath Providence scattered away the mist of 


EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT. 803 


years that had so long hid this dreadful effigy. Until 
this hour no living man hath seen what we behold! ” 

Within the antique frame, which so recently had 
inclosed a sable waste of canvas, now appeared a visi¬ 
ble picture, still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, 
but thrown forward in strong relief. It was a half- 
length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old- 
fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad 
ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat, the brim of which 
overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud the 
eyes had a peculiar glare, which was almost lifelike. 
The whole portrait started so distinctly out of the 
background, that it had the effect of a person look- 
ins: down from the wall at the astonished and awe- 
stricken spectators. The expression of the face, if any 
words can convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch 
detected in some hideous guilt, and exposed to the 
bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn of a 
vast surrounding multitude. There was the struggle of 
defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by the crush¬ 
ing weight of ignominy. The torture of the soul had 
come forth upon the countenance. It seemed as if 
the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of imme¬ 
morial years, had been all the time acquiring an in¬ 
tenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it 
gloomed forth again, and threw its evil omen over the 
present hour. Such, if the wild legend may be cred¬ 
ited, was the portrait of Edward Randolph, as he ap¬ 
peared when a people’s curse had wrought its influence 
upon his nature. 

“ ’T would drive me mad—that awful face! ’’ said 
Hutchinson, who seemed fascinated by the contempla¬ 
tion of it. 

“ Be warned, then! ” whispered Alice. “ He tram- 


304 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


pled on a people's rights. Behold his punishment — 
and avoid a crime like his! ” 

The Lieutenant-Governor actually trembled for an 
instant; but, exerting his energy — which was not, 
however, his most characteristic feature — he strove to 
shake off the spell of Randolph’s countenance. 

“ Girl! ” cried he, laughing bitterly as he turned 
to Alice, “ have you brought hither your painter’s art 
— your Italian spirit’ of intrigue — your tricks of 
stage effect — and think to influence the councils of 
riders and the affairs of nations by such shallow con¬ 
trivances ? See here ! ” 

“ Stay yet a while,” said the Selectman, as Hutch¬ 
inson again snatched the pen ; “ for if ever mortal 
man received a warning from a tormented soul, your 
Honor is that man ! ” 

“ Away! ” answered Hutchinson fiercely. “ Though 
yonder senseless picture cried ‘ Forbear! ’ — it should 
not move me ! ” 

Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face 
(which seemed at that moment to intensify the horror 
of its miserable and wicked look), he scrawled on the 
paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of des¬ 
peration, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it 
is said, he shuddered, as if that signature had granted 
away his salvation. 

“ It is done,” said he; and placed his hand upon his 
brow. 

“ May Heaven forgive the deed,” said the soft, sad 
accents of Alice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit 
flitting away. 

When morning came there was a stifled whisper 
through the household, and spreading thence about 
the town, that the dark, mysterious picture had started 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT. 305 


from the wall, and spoken face to face with Lieutenant- 
Governor Hutchinson. If such a miracle had been 
wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind, for 
within the antique frame nothing could be discerned 
save the impenetrable cloud, which had covered the 
canvas since the memory of man. If the figure had, 
indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at 
the daydawn, and hidden itself behind a century’s ob¬ 
scurity. The truth probably was, that Alice Vane’s 
secret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely 
effected a temporary renovation. But those who, in 
that brief interval, had beheld the awful visage of Ed¬ 
ward Randolph, desired no second glance, and ever 
afterwards trembled at the recollection of the scene, 
as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. 
And as for Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his 
dying hour drew on, he gasped for breath, and com¬ 
plained that he was choking with the blood of the 
Boston Massacre; and Francis Lincoln, the former 
Captain of Castle William, who was standing at his 
bedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to 
that of Edward Randolph. Did his broken spirit feel, 
at that dread hour, the tremendous burden of a Peo¬ 
ple’s curse ? 


At the conclusion of this miraculous legend, I in¬ 
quired of mine host whether the picture still remained 
in the chamber over our heads; but Mr. Tiffany in¬ 
formed me that it had long since been removed, and 
was supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way cor¬ 
ner of the New England Museum. Perchance some 
rurious antiquary may light upon it there, and, with 

the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture cleaner, 

20 


VOL. I. 



806 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


may supply a not unnecessary proof of the authenticity 
of the facts here set down. During the progress of 
the story a storm had been gathering abroad, and rag¬ 
ing and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the 
Province House, that it seemed as if all the old gov¬ 
ernors and great men were running riot above stairs 
while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them below. In 
the course of generations, when many people have 
lived and died in an ancient house, the whistling of 
the wind through its crannies, and the creaking of its 
beams and rafters, become strangely like the tones of 
the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy 
footsteps treading the deserted chambers. It is as if 
the echoes of half a century were revived. Such were 
the ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in our 
ears when I took leave of the circle round the fireside 
of the Province House, and plunging down the door 
steps, fought my way homeward against a drifting 
snow-storm. 



LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE. 

III. 

LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE. 

Mine excellent friend, the landlord of the Province 
House, was pleased, the other evening, to invite Mr. 
Tiffany and myself to an oyster supper. This slight 
mark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely ob¬ 
served, was far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and 
I, the humble note-taker of his narratives, had fairly 
earned, by the public notice which our joint lucubra¬ 
tions had attracted to his establishment. Many a 
cigar had been smoked within his premises — many 
a glass of wine, or more potent aqua vitae, had been 
quaffed — many a dinner had been eaten by curious 
strangers, who, save for the fortimate conjmiction 
of Mr. Tiffany and me, would never have ventured 
through that darksome avenue which gives access to 
the historic precincts of the Province House. In 
short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances 
of Mr. Thomas Waite, we had brought his forgotten 
mansion almost as effectually into public view as if we 
had thrown down the vulgar range of shoe shops and 
dry goods stores, which hides its aristocratic front 
from Washington Street. It may be unadvisable, 
however, to speak too loudly of the increased custom 
of the house, lest Mr. Waite should find it difficult to 
renew the lease on so favorable terms as heretofore. 

Being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. 


308 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Tiffany nor myself felt any scruple in doing full jus¬ 
tice to the good things that were set before us. If the 
feast were less magnificent than those same panelled 
walls had witnessed in a by-gone century, — if mine 
host presided with somewhat less of state than might 
have befitted a successor of the royal Governors, — if 
the guests made a less imposing show than the be- 
wigged and powdered and embroided dignitaries, who 
erst banqueted at the gubernatorial table, and now 
sleep, within their armorial tombs on Copp’s Hill, or 
round King’s Chapel, — yet never, I may boldly say, 
did a more comfortable little party assemble in the 
Province House, from Queen Anne’s days to the 
Revolution. The occasion was rendered more inter¬ 
esting by the presence of a venerable personage, whose 
own actual reminiscences went back to the epoch of 
Gage and Howe, and even supplied him with a doubt¬ 
ful anecdote or two of Hutchinson. He was one of 
that small, and now all but extinguished, class, whose 
attachment to royalty, and to the colonial institutions 
and customs that were connected with it, had never 
yielded to the democratic heresies of after times. The 
young queen of Britain has not a more loyal subject 
in her realm — perhaps not one who would kneel be¬ 
fore her throne with such reverential love — as this 
old grandsire, whose head has whitened beneath the 
mild sway of the Republic, which still, in his mel¬ 
lower moments, he terms a usurpation. Yet prej¬ 
udices so obstinate have not made him an ungentle 
or impracticable companion. If the truth must be 
told, the life of the aged loyalist has been of such a 
scrambling and unsettled character, — he has had so 
little choice of friends and been so often destitute of 
any, — that I doubt whether he would refuse a cup of 


LADY E LEAN ORE’S MANTLE. 


309 


kindness with either Oliver Cromwell or John Han- • 
cock, — to say nothing of any democrat now upon the 
stage. In another paper of this series I may perhaps 
give the reader a closer glimpse of his portrait. 

Our host, in due season, uncorked a bottle of Ma¬ 
deira, of such exquisite perfume and admirable flavor 
that he surely must have discovered it in an ancient 
bin, down deep beneath the deepest cellar, where some 
jolly old butler stored away the Governor’s choicest 
wine, and forgot to reveal the secret on his death-bed. 
Peace to his red-nosed ghost, and a libation to his 
memory! This precious liquor was imbibed by Mr. 
Tiffany with peculiar zest; and after sipping the third 
glass, it was his pleasure to give us one of the oddest 
legends which he had yet raked from the storehouse 
where he keeps such matters. With some suitable 
adornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as 
follows. 


Not long after Colonel Shute had assumed the gov¬ 
ernment of Massachusetts Bay, now nearly a hundred 
and twenty years ago, a young lady of rank and for¬ 
tune arrived from England, to claim his protection as 
her guardian. He was her distant relative, but the 
nearest who had survived the gradual extinction of her 
family; so that no more eligible shelter could be foimd 
for the rich and high-born Lady Eleanore Roclicliffe 
tlian within the Province House of a transatlantic 
colony. The consort of Governor Shute, moreover, 
had been as a mother to her childhood, and was now 
anxious to receive her, in the hope that a beautiful 
young woman would be exposed to infinitely less peril 
from the primitive society of New England than amid 



810 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


the artifices and corruptions of a court. If either the 
Governor or his lady had especially consulted their 
own comfort, they would probably have sought to de¬ 
volve the responsibility on other hands : since, with 
some noble and splendid traits of character, Lady El- 
eanore was remarkable for a harsh, unyielding pride, 
a haughty consciousness of her hereditary and per¬ 
sonal advantages, which made her almost incapable of 
control. Judging from many traditionary anecdotes, 
this peculiar temper was hardly less than a mono¬ 
mania ; or, if the acts which it inspired were those of 
a sane person, it seemed due from Providence that 
pride so sinful should be followed by as severe a 
retribution. That tinge of the marvellous, which is 
thrown over so many of these half-forgotten legends, 
has probably imparted an additional wildness to the 
strange story of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, 

The ship in which she came passenger had arrived 
at Newport, whence Lady Eleanore was conveyed to 
Boston in the Governor’s coach, attended by a small 
escort of gentlemen on horseback. The ponderous 
equipage, with its four black horses, attracted much 
notice as it rumbled through Cornhill, surrounded by 
the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers, with 
swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their 
holsters. Through the large glass windows of the 
coach, as it rolled along, the people could discern the 
figure of Lady Eleanore, strangely combining an al¬ 
most queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a 
maiden in her teens. A singular tale had gone abroad 
among the ladies of the province, that their fair rival 
was indebted for much of the irresistible charm of her 
appearance to a certain article of dress — an embroid¬ 
ered mantle — which had been wrought by the most 


LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 


811 


skilful artist in London, and possessed even magical 
properties of adornment. On the present occasion, 
however, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress, 
being clad in a riding habit of velvet, which would 
have appeared stiff and ungraceful on any other form. 

The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and 
the whole cavalcade came to a pause in front of the 
contorted iron balustrade that fenced the Province 
House from the public street. It was an awkward 
coincidence that the bell of the Old South was just 
then tolling for a fmieral; so that, instead of a glad¬ 
some peal with which it was customary to announce 
the arrival of distinguished strangers, Lady Eleanore 
Rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calam¬ 
ity had come embodied in her beautiful person. 

“ A very great disrespect! ” exclaimed Captain 
Langford, an English officer, who had recently 
brought dispatches to Governor Shute. “The fu¬ 
neral should have been deferred, lest Lady Eleanore’s 
spirits be affected by such a dismal welcome.” 

“ With your pardon, sir,” replied Doctor Clarke, 
a physician, and a famous champion of the popular 
party, “ whatever the heralds may pretend, a dead beg¬ 
gar must have precedence of a living queen. King 
Death confers high privileges.” 

These remarks were interchanged while the speak¬ 
ers waited a passage through the crowd, which had 
gathered on each side of the gateway, leaving an open 
avenue to the portal of the Province House. A black 
slave in livery now leaped from behind the coach, and 
threw open the door; while at the same moment Gov¬ 
ernor Shute descended the flight of steps from his 
mansion, to assist Lady Eleanore in alighting. But 
the Governor’s stately approach was anticipated in a 


312 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


manner that excited general astonishment. A pale 
young man, with his black hair all in disorder, rushed 
from the throng, and prostrated himself beside the 
coach, thus offering his person as a footstool for Lady 
Eleanore Loclicliffe to tread upon. She held back an 
instant, yet with an expression as if doubting whether 
the young man were worthy to bear the weight of her 
footstep, rather than dissatisfied to receive such awful 
reverence from a fellow-mortal. 

“ Up, sir,” said the Governor, sternly, at the same 
time lifting his cane over the intruder. “ What means 
the Bedlamite by this freak ? ” 

“ Nay,” answered lady Eleanore playfully, but with 
more scorn than pity in her tone, “ your Excellency 
shall not strike him. When men seek only to be 
trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so 
easily granted — and so well deserved ! ” 

Then, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud, 
she placed her foot upon the cowering form, and ex¬ 
tended her hand to meet that of the Governor. There 
was a brief interval, during which Lady Eleanore 
retained this attitude; and never, surely, was there an 
apter emblem of aristocracy and hereditary pride 
trampling on human sympathies and the kindred of 
nature, than these two figures presented at that mo¬ 
ment. Yet the spectators were so smitten with her 
beauty, and so essential did pride seem to the exist¬ 
ence of such a creature, that they gave a simultaneous 
acclamation of applause. 

“Who is this insolent young fellow?” inquired 
Captain Langford, who still remained beside Doctor 
Clarke. “If he be in his senses, his impertinence 
demands the bastinado. If mad, Lady Eleanore 
should be secured from further inconvenience, by his 
confinement” 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE . 


318 


“His name is Jervase Helwyse,” answered the Doc¬ 
tor ; “ a youth of no birth or fortune, or other advan¬ 
tages, save the mind and soul that nature gave him ; 
and being secretary to our colonial agent in London, 
it was his misfortune to meet this Lady Eleanore 
Rochcliffe. He loved her — and her scorn has driven 
him mad.” 

“ He was mad so to aspire,” observed the English 
officer. 

“ It may be so,” said Doctor Clarke, frowning as he 
spoke. “ But I tell you, sir, I could well-nigh doubt 
the justice of the Heaven above us if no signal humili¬ 
ation overtake this lady, who now treads so haughtily 
into yonder mansion. She seeks to place herself above 
the sympathies of our common nature, which envelops 
all human souls. See, if that nature do not assert its 
claim over her in some mode that shall bring her level 
with the lowest! ” 

“ Never ! ” cried Captain Langford indignantly — 
“neither in life, nor when they lay her with her 
ancestors.” 

Not many days afterwards the Governor gave a ball 
in honor of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. The principal 
gentry of the colony received invitations, which were 
distributed to their residences, far and near, by mes¬ 
sengers on horseback, bearing missives sealed with all 
the formality of official dispatches. In obedience to 
the summons, there was a general gathering of rank, 
wealth, and beauty; and the wide door of the Province 
House had seldom given admittance to more numerous 
and honorable guests than on the evening of Lady 
Eleanore’s ball. Without much extravagance of eu¬ 
logy, the spectacle might even be termed splendid; 
for, according to the fashion of the times, the ladies 


314 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


slione in rich silks and satins, outspread over wide- 
projecting hoops ; and the gentlemen glittered in gold 
embroidery, laid unsparingly upon the purple, or scar¬ 
let, or sky-blue velvet, which was the material of their 
coats and waistcoats. The latter article of dress was 
of great importance, since it enveloped the wearer’s 
body nearly to the knees, and was perhaps bedizened 
with the amount of his whole year’s income, in golden 
flowers and foliage. The altered taste of the present 
day — a taste symbolic of a deep change in the whole 
system of society — would look upon almost any of 
those gorgeous figures as ridiculous; although that 
evening the guests sought their reflections in the pier- 
glasses, and rejoiced to catch their own glitter amid 
the glittering crowd. What a pity that one of the 
stately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the 
scene, which, by the very traits that were so transi¬ 
tory, might have taught us much that would be worth 
knowing and remembering! 

Would, at least, that either painter or mirror could 
convey to us some faint idea of a garment, already 
noticed in this legend, — the Lady Eleanore’s embroid¬ 
ered mantle, — which the gossips whispered was in¬ 
vested with magic properties, so as to lend a new and 
untried grace to her figure each time that she put it 
on! Idle fancy as it is, this mysterious mantle has 
thrown an awe around my image of her, partly from 
its fabled virtues, and partly because it was the handi¬ 
work of a dying woman, and, perchance, owed the fan¬ 
tastic grace of its conception to the delirium of ap¬ 
proaching death. 

After the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady 
Eleanore Rochcliffe stood apart from the mob of 
guests, insulating herself within a small and distin 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE . 


315 


guished circle, to whom she accorded a more cordial 
favor than to the general throng. The waxen torches 
threw their radiance vividly over the scene, bringing 
out its brilliant points in strong relief ; but she gazed 
carelessly, and with now and then an expression of 
weariness or scorn, tempered with such feminine grace 
that her auditors scarcely perceived the moral deform¬ 
ity of which it was the utterance. She beheld the 
spectacle not with vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be 
pleased with the provincial mockery of a court festival, 
but with the deeper scorn of one whose spirit held it¬ 
self too high to participate in the enjoyment of other 
human souls. Whether or no the recollections of 
those who saw her that evening were influenced by 
the strange events with which she was subsequently 
connected, so it was that her figure ever after recurred 
to them as marked by something wild and unnatural, — 
although, at the time, the general whisper was of her 
exceeding beauty, and of the indescribable charm 
which her mantle threw around her. Some close ob¬ 
servers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and alternate 
paleness of countenance, with a corresponding flow and 
revulsion of spirits, and once or twice a painful and 
helpless betrayal of lassitude, as if she were on the 
point of sinking to the ground. Then, with a nervous 
shudder, she seemed to arouse her energies and threw 
some bright and playful yet half-wicked sarcasm into 
the conversation. There was so strange a character¬ 
istic in her manners and sentiments that it astonished 
every right-minded listener , till looking in her face, a 
lurking and incomprehensible glance and smile per¬ 
plexed them with doubts both as to her seriousness 
and sanity. Gradually, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe’s 
Circle grew smaller, till only four gentlemen remained 


816 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


in it. These were Captain Langford, the English 
officer before mentioned ; a Virginian planter, who had 
come to Massachusetts on some political errand ; a 
young Episcopal clergyman, the grandson of a British 
earl; and, lastly, the private secretary of Governor 
Shute, whose obsequiousness had won a sort of toler¬ 
ance from Lady Eleanore. 

At different periods of the evening the liveried 
servants of the Province House passed among the 
guests, bearing huge trays of refreshments and French 
and Spanish wines. Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, who 
refused to wet her beautiful lips even with a bubble of 
Champagne, had sunk back into a large damask chair, 
apparently overwearied either with the excitement of 
the scene or its tedium, and while, for an instant, she 
was unconscious of voices, laughter and music, a 
young man stole forward, and knelt down at her feet. 
He bore a salver in his hand, on which was a chased 
silver goblet, filled to the brim with wine, which he 
offered as reverentially as to a crowned queen, or 
rather with the awful devotion of a priest doing 
sacrifice to his idol. Conscious that some one touched 
her robe, Lady Eleanore started, and unclosed her 
eyes upon the pale, wild features and dishevelled hair 
of Jervase Helwyse. 

“ Why do you haunt me thus ? ” said she, in a lan¬ 
guid tone, but with a kindlier feeling than she ordina¬ 
rily permitted herself to express. “ They tell me that 
I have done you harm.” 

“ Heaven knows if that be so,” replied the young 
man solemnly. “But, Lady Eleanore, in requital of 
that harm, if such there be, and for your own earthly 
and heavenly welfare, I pray you to take one sip of 
this holy wine, and then to pass the goblet round 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE. 


317 


among the guests. And this shall be a symbol that . 
you have not sought to withdraw yourself from the 
chain of human sympathies — which whoso would 
shake off must keep company with fallen angels.” 

“ Where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental 
vessel ? ” exclaimed the Episcopal clergyman. 

This question drew the notice of the guests to the 
silver cup, which was recognized as appertaining to 
the communion plate of the Old South Church; and, 
for aught that could be known, it was brimming over 
with the consecrated wine. 

“ Perhaps it is poisoned,” half whispered the Gov¬ 
ernor’s secretary. 

“ Pour it down the villain’s throat! ” cried the Vir¬ 
ginian fiercely. 

“ Turn him out of the house ! ” cried Captain Lang¬ 
ford, seizing Jervase Helwyse so roughly by the 
shoulder that the sacramental cup was overturned, 
and its contents sprinkled upon Lady Eleanore’s 
mantle. “ Whether knave, fool, or Bedlamite, it is 
intolerable that the fellow should go at large.” 

“ Pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm,” 
said Lady Eleanore, with a faint and weary smile. 

“ Take him out of my sight, if such be your pleasure; 
for I can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at 
him; whereas, in all decency and conscience, it would 
become me to weep for the mischief I have wrought! ” 

But while the by-standers were attempting to lead 
away the unfortunate young man, he broke from them, 
and with a wild, impassioned earnestness, offered a 
new and equally strange petition to Lady Eleanore. It 
was no other than that she should throw off the mantle, 
which, while he pressed the silver cup of wine upon 
her, she had drawn more closely around her form, so 
as almost to shroud herself within it. 


818 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“Cast it from you!” exclaimed Jervase Helwyse, 
clasping his hands in an agony of entreaty. “ It may 
not yet be too late! Give the accursed garment to 
the flames! ” 

But Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the 
rich folds of the embroidered mantle over her head, in 
such a fashion as to give a completely new aspect to 
her beautiful face, which — half hidden, half revealed 
— seemed to belong to some being of mysterious char¬ 
acter and purposes. 

“Farewell, Jervase Helwyse!” said she. “Keep 
my image in your remembrance, as you behold it 
now.” 

“ Alas, lady! ” he replied, in a tone no longer wild, 
but sad as a funeral bell. “We must meet shortly, 
when your face may wear another aspect — and that 
shall be the image that must abide within me.” 

He made no more resistance to the violent efforts of 
the gentlemen and servants, who almost dragged him 
out of the apartment, and dismissed him roughly from 
the iron gate of the Province House. Captain Lang¬ 
ford, who had been very active in this affair, was re¬ 
turning to the presence of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, 
when he encountered the physician, Doctor Clarke, 
with whom he had held some casual talk on the day of 
her arrival. The Doctor stood apart, separated from 
Lady Eleanore by the width of the room, but eying 
her with such keen sagacity that Captain Langford 
involuntarily gave him credit for the discovery of some 
deep secret. 

“You appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms 
of this queenly maiden,” said he, hoping thus to draw 
forth the physician’s hidden knowledge. 

“ God forbid! ” answered Doctor Clarke, with a grave 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE. 


319 


Bmile; “ ancl if you be wise you will put up the same 
prayer for yourself. Woe to those who shall be smit¬ 
ten by this beautiful Lady Eleanore! But yonder 
stands the Governor — and I have a word or two for 
his private ear. Good night! ” 

He accordingly advanced to Governor Shute, and 
addressed him in so low a tone that none of the 
by-standers could catch a word of what he said, al¬ 
though the sudden change of his Excellency’s hitherto 
cheerful visage betokened that the communication 
could be of no agreeable import. A very few moments 
afterwards it was announced to the guests that an un¬ 
foreseen circumstance rendered it necessary to put a 
premature close to the festival. 

The ball at the Province House supplied a topic of 
conversation for the colonial metropolis for some days 
after its occurrence, and might still longer have been 
the general theme, only that a subject of all-engrossing 
interest thrust it, for a time, from the public recollec¬ 
tion. This was the appearance of a dreadful epidemic, 
which, in that age and long before and afterwards, 
was wont to slay its hundreds and thousands on both 
sides of the Atlantic. On the occasion of which we 
speak, it was distinguished by a peculiar virulence, in¬ 
somuch that it has left its traces — its pit-marks, to use 
an appropriate figure — on the history of the country, 
the affairs of which were thrown into confusion by 
its ravages. At first, unlike its ordinary course, the 
disease seemed to confine itself to the higher circles of 
society, selecting its victims from among the proud, 
the well-born, and the wealthy, entering unabashed into 
stately chambers, and lying down with the slumberers 
in silken beds. Some of the most distinguished guests 
of the Province House — even those whom the haughty 



320 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe had deemed not unworthy 
of her favor — were stricken by this fatal scourge. It 
was noticed, with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling, 
that the four gentlemen — the Virginian, the British 
officer, the young clergyman, and the Governor’s se¬ 
cretary— who had been her most devoted attendants 
on the evening of the ball, were the foremost on whom 
the plague stroke fell. But the disease, pursuing its 
onward progress, soon ceased to be exclusively a pre¬ 
rogative of aristocracy. Its red brand was no longer 
conferred like a noble’s star, or an order of knight¬ 
hood. It threaded its way through the narrow and 
crooked streets, and entered the low, mean, darksome 
dwellings, and laid its hand of death upon the artisans 
and laboring classes of the town. It compelled rich 
and poor to feel themselves brethren then ; and stalk¬ 
ing to and fro across the Three Hills, with a fierceness 
which made it almost a new pestilence, there was that 
mighty conqueror — that scourge and horror of our 
forefathers — the Small-Pox ! 

We cannot estimate the affright which this plague 
inspired of yore, by contemplating it as the fangless 
monster of the present day. We must remember, 
rather, with what awe we watched the gigantic foot¬ 
steps of the Asiatic cholera, striding from shore to 
shore of the Atlantic, and marching like destiny upon 
cities far remote which flight had already half depopu¬ 
lated. There is no other fear so horrible and unhu¬ 
manizing as that which makes man dread to breathe 
heaven’s vital air lest it be poison, or to grasp the 
hand of a brother or friend lest the gripe of the pes¬ 
tilence should clutch him. Such was the dismay that 
now followed in the track of the disease, or ran before 
it throughout the town. Graves were hastily dug, and 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE. 


321 


the pestilential relics as hastily covered, because the 
dead were enemies of the living, and strove to draw 
them headlong, as it were, into their own dismal pit. 
The public councils were suspended, as if mortal wis¬ 
dom might relinquish its devices, now that an un¬ 
earthly usurper had found his way into the ruler’s 
mansion. Had an enemy’s fleet been hovering on the 
coast, or his armies trampling on our soil, the people 
would probably have committed their defence to that 
same direful conqueror who had wrought their own 
calamity, and would permit no interference with his 
sway. This conqueror had a symbol of his triumphs. 
It was a blood-red flag, that fluttered in the tainted 
air, over the door of every dwelling into which the 
Small-Pox had entered. 

Such a banner was long since waving over the 
portal of the Province House; for thence, as was 
proved by tracking its footsteps back, had all this 
dreadful mischief issued. It had been traced back to 
a lady’s luxurious chamber — to the proudest of the 
proud — to her that was so delicate, and hardly owned 
herself of earthly mould — to the haughty one, who 
took her stand above human sympathies — to Lady 
Eleanore! There remained no room for doubt that 
the contagion had lurked in that gorgeous mantle, 
which threw so strange a grace around her at the 
festival. Its fantastic splendor had been conceived in 
the delirious brain of a woman on her death-bed, and 
was the last toil of her stiffening fingers, which had 
interwoven fate and misery with its golden threads. 
This dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited 
far and wide. The people raved against the Lady 
Eleanore, and cried out that her pride and scorn had 
evoked a fiend, and that, between them both, this 

21 


VOL. I. 


322 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


monstrous evil had been born. At times, their rage 
and despair took the semblance of grinning mirth; 
and whenever the red flag of the pestilence was hoisted 
over another and yet another door, they clapped their 
hands and shouted through the streets, in bitter mock¬ 
ery : “ Behold a new triumph for the Lady Eleanore! ” 

One day, in the midst of these dismal times, a wild 
figure approached the portal of the Province House, 
and folding his arms, stood contemplating the scarlet 
banner which a passing breeze shook fitfully, as if to 
fling abroad the contagion that it typified. At length, 
climbing one of the pillars by means of the iron bal¬ 
ustrade, he took down the flag and entered the man¬ 
sion, waving it above his head. At the foot of the 
staircase he met the Governor, booted and spurred, 
with his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the 
point of setting forth upon a journey. 

“Wretched lunatic, what do you seek here?” ex¬ 
claimed Shute, extending his cane to guard himself 
from contact. “ There is nothing here but Death. 
Back — or you will meet him ! ” 

“ Death will not touch me, the banner-bearer of the 
pestilence ! ” cried Jervase Helwyse, shaking the red 
flag aloft. “ Death, and the Pestilence, who wears 
the aspect of the Lady Eleanore, will walk through 
the streets to-night, and I must march before them 
with this banner! ” 

“ Why do I waste words on the fellow ? ” muttered 
the Governor, drawing his cloak across his mouth. 
“ What matters his miserable life, when none of us 
are sure of twelve hours’ breath ? On, fool, to your 
own destruction! ” 

He made way for Jervase Helwyse, who immedi¬ 
ately ascended the staircase, but, on the first landing- 


LADY ELEANORE 1 S MANTLE. 


323 


place, was arrested by the firm grasp of a hand upon 
his shoulder. Looking fiercely up, with a madman’s 
impulse to struggle with and rend asunder his oppo¬ 
nent, he found himself powerless beneath a calm, stem 
eye, which possessed the mysterious property of quell¬ 
ing frenzy at its height. The person whom he had 
now encountered was the physician, Doctor Clarke, 
the duties of whose sad profession had led him to the 
Province House, where he was an infrequent guest in 
more prosperous times. 

“Young man, what is your purpose?” demanded 
he. 

“ I seek the Lady Eleanore,” answered Jervase 
Helwyse, submissively. 

“ All have fled from her,” said the physician. 
“ Why do you seek her now ? I tell you, youth, her 
nurse fell death-stricken on the threshold of that fatal 
chamber. Know ye not, that never came such a curse 
to our shores as this lovely Lady Eleanore ? — that 
her breath has filled the air with poison ? — that she 
has shaken pestilence and death upon the land, from 
the folds of her accursed mantle? ” 

“ Let me look upon her! ” rejoined the mad youth, 
more wildly. “ Let me behold her, in her awful 
beauty, clad in the regal garments of the pestilence! 
She and Death sit on a throne together. Let me 
kneel down before them ! ” 

“Poor youth!” said Doctor Clarke; and, moved 
by a deep sense of human weakness, a smile of caus¬ 
tic humor curled his lip even then. “ Wilt thou still 
worship the destroyer and surround her image with 
fantasies the more magnificent, the more evil she has 
wrought ? Thus man doth ever to his tyrants. Ap¬ 
proach, then ! Madness, as I have noted, has that 


324 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


good efficacy, that it will guard you from contagion — 
and perchance its own cure may be found in yonder 
chamber.” 

Ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open a 
door and signed to Jervase Helwyse that he should 
enter. The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cher¬ 
ished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in state, 
unharmed herself by the pestilential influence, which, 
as by enchantment, she scattered round about her. 
He dreamed, no doubt, that her beauty was not 
dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor. 
With such anticipations, he stole reverentially to the 
door at which the physician stood, but paused upon 
the threshold, gazing fearfully into the gloom of the 
darkened chamber. 

“ Where is the Lady Eleanore ? ” whispered he. 

“ Call her,” replied the physician. 

“ Lady Eleanore! — Princess! — Queen of Death! ” 
cried Jervase Helwyse, advancing three steps into the 
chamber. “ She is not here! There, on yonder table, 
I behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she 
wore upon her bosom. There”—and he shuddered 
— “ there hangs her mantle, on which a dead woman 
embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. But where 
is the Lady Eleanore ? ” 

Something stirred within the silken curtains of a 
canopied bed; and a low moan was uttered, which, 
listening intently, Jervase Helwyse began to distin¬ 
guish as a woman’s voice, complaining dolefully of 
thirst. He fancied, even, that he recognized its tones. 

“ My throat! — my throat is scorched,” murmured 
the voice. “ A drop of water ! ” 

“What thing art thou?” said the brain-stricken 
youth, drawing near the bed and tearing asunder its 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE. 


325 


curtains. “ Whose voice hast thou stolen for thy mur¬ 
murs and miserable petitions, as if Lady Eleanore 
could he conscious of mortal infirmity ? Eie ! Heap 
of diseased mortality, why lurkest thou in my lady’s 
chamber ? ” 

“O Jervase Helwyse,” said the voice — and as it 
spoke the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its 
blasted face — “ look not now on the woman you once 
loved! The curse of Heaven hath stricken me, be¬ 
cause I would not call man my brother, nor woman 
sister. I wrapped myself in pride as in a mantle, 
and scorned the sympathies of nature; and therefore 
has nature made this wretched body the medium of a 
dreadful sympathy. You are avenged — they are all 
avenged—Nature is avenged—for I am Eleanore 
Rochcliffe! ” 

The malice of his mental disease, the bitterness 
lurking at the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, for 
a blighted and ruined life, and love that had been paid 
with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of Jervase 
Helwyse. He shook his finger at the wretched girl, 
and the chamber echoed, the curtains of the bed were 
shaken, with his outburst of insane merriment. 

“ Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore! ” he 
cried. “ All have been her victims ! Who so worthy 
to be the final victim as herself ? ” 

Impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intel¬ 
lect, he snatched the fatal mantle and rushed from 
the chamber and the house. That night a procession 
passed, by torchlight, through the streets, bearing in 
the midst the figure of a woman, enveloped with a 
richly embroidered mantle ; while in advance stalked 
Jervase Helwyse, waving the red flag of the pestilence. 
Arriving opposite the Province House, the mob burned 


326 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


the effigy, and a strong wind came and swept away 
the ashes. It was said that, from that very hour, the 
pestilence abated, as if its sway had some mysterious 
connection, from the first plague stroke to the last, 
with Lady Eleanore’s Mantle. A remarkable uncer¬ 
tainty broods over that unhappy lady’s fate. There is 
a belief, however, that in a certain chamber of this 
mansion a female form may sometimes be duskily dis¬ 
cerned, shrinking into the darkest corner and muf¬ 
fling her face within an embroidered mantle. Suppos¬ 
ing the legend true, can this be other than the once 
proud Lady Eleanore ? 


Mine host and the old loyalist and I bestowed no 
little warmth of applause upon this narrative, in which 
we had all been deeply interested; for the reader can 
scarcely conceive how unspeakably the effect of such 
a tale is heightened when, as in the present case, we 
may repose perfect confidence in the veracity of him 
who tells it. For my own part, knowing how scrupu¬ 
lous is Mr. Tiffany to settle the foundation of his facts, 
I could not have believed him one whit the more faith¬ 
fully had he professed himself an eye-witness of the 
doings and sufferings of poor Lady Eleanore. Some 
sceptics, it is true, might demand documentary evi¬ 
dence, or even require him to produce the embroidered 
mantle, forgetting that — Heaven be praised — it was 
consumed to ashes. But now the old loyalist, whose 
blood was warmed by the good cheer, began to talk, in 
his turn, about the traditions of the Province House, 
and hinted that he, if it were agreeable, might add a 
few reminiscences to our legendary stock. Mr. Tiffany, 
having no cause to dread a rival, immediately besought 



LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE. 


827 


him to favor us with a specimen; my own entreaties, 
of course, were urged to the same effect; and our 
venerable guest, well pleased to find willing auditors, 
awaited only the return of Mr. Thomas Waite, who 
had been summoned forth to provide accommodations 
for several new arrivals. Perchance the public — but 
be this as its own caprice and ours shall settle the 
matter — may read the result in another Tale of tbi? 
Province House. 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE. 


IV. 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 

Our host having resumed the chair, he, as well as 
Mr. Tiffany and myself, expressed much eagerness to 
be made acquainted with the story to which the loyal¬ 
ist had alluded. That venerable man first of all saw 
fit to moisten his throat with another glass of wine, 
and then, turning his face towards our coal fire, looked 
steadfastly for a few moments into the depths of its 
cheerful glow. Finally, he poured forth a great flu¬ 
ency of speech. The generous liquid that he had im¬ 
bibed, while it warmed his age-chilled blood, likewise 
took off the chill from his heart and mind, and gave 
him an energy to think and feel, which we could 
hardly have expected to find beneath the snows of 
fourscore winters. His feelings, indeed, appeared to 
me more excitable than those of a younger man; or at 
least, the same degree of feeling manifested itself by 
more visible effects than if his judgment and will had 
possessed the potency of meridian life. At the pa¬ 
thetic passages of his narrative he readily melted into 
tears. When a breath of indignation swept across his 
spirit the blood flushed his withered visage even to the 
roots of his white hair; and he shook his clinched fist 
at the trio of peaceful auditors, seeming to fancy ene¬ 
mies in those who felt very kindly towards the deso¬ 
late old soul. But ever and anon, sometimes in the 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 


329 


midst of his most earnest talk, this ancient person’s 
intellect would wander vaguely, losing its hold of the 
matter in hand, and groping for it amid misty shad¬ 
ows. Then would he cackle forth a feeble laugh, and 
express a doubt whether his wits — for by that phrase 
it pleased our ancient friend to signify his mental 
powers — were not getting a little the worse for wear. 

Under these disadvantages, the old loyalist’s story 
required more revision to render it fit for the public 
eye than those of the series which have preceded it; 
nor should it be concealed that the sentiment and tone 
of the affair may have undergone some slight, or per¬ 
chance more than slight, metamorphosis, in its trans¬ 
mission to the reader through the medium of a thor¬ 
ough-going democrat. The tale itself is a mere sketch, 
with no involution of plot, nor any great interest of 
events, yet possessing, if I have rehearsed it aright, 
that pensive influence over the mind which the shadow 
of the old Province House flings upon the loiterer in 
its court-yard. 


The hour had come — the hour of defeat and hu¬ 
miliation— when Sir William Howe was to pass over 
the threshold of the Province House, and embark, with 
no such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised 
himself, on board the British fleet. He bade his ser¬ 
vants and military attendants go before him, and lin¬ 
gered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion, to 
quell the fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom 
as with a death throb. Preferable, then, would he 
have deemed his fate, had a warrior’s death left him 
a claim to the narrow territory of a grave within the 
$oil which the King had given him to defend. With 





330 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


an ominous perception that, as his departing footsteps 
echoed adown the staircase, the sway of Britain was 
passing forever from New England, he smote his 
clinched hand on his brow, and cursed the destiny 
that had flung the shame of a dismembered empire 
upon him. 

“Would to God,” cried he, hardly repressing his 
tears of rage, “ that the rebels were even now at the 
doorstep ! A blood-stain upon the floor should then 
bear testimony that the last British ruler was faithful 
to his trust.” 

The tremulous voice of a woman replied to his ex¬ 
clamation. 

“ Heaven’s cause and the King’s are one,” it said. 
“ Go forth, Sir William Howe, and trust in Heaven 
to bring back a Royal Governor in triumph.” 

Subduing, at once, the passion to which he had 
yielded only in the faith that it was unwitnessed, Sir 
William Howe became conscious that an aged woman, 
leaning on. a gold-headed staff, was standing betwixt 
him and the door. It was old Esther Dudley, who 
had dwelt almost immemorial years in this mansion, 
until her presence seemed as inseparable from it as 
the recollections of its history. She was the daughter 
of an ancient and once eminent family, which had 
fallen into poverty and decay, and left its last de¬ 
scendant no resource save the bomity of the King, nor 
any shelter except within the walls of the Province 
House. An office in the household, with merely nom¬ 
inal duties, had been assigned to her as a pretext for 
the payment of a small pension, the greater part of 
which she expended in adorning herself with an an¬ 
tique magnificence of attire. The claims of Esther 
Dudley’s gentle blood were acknowledged by all the 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 


381 


successive Governors; and they treated her with the 
punctilious courtesy which it was her foible to demand, 
not always with success, from a neglectful world. The 
only actual share which she assumed in the business 
of the mansion was to glide through its passages and 
public chambers, late at night, to see that the servants 
had dropped no fire from their flaring torches, nor 
left embers crackling and blazing on the hearths. 
Perhaps it was this invariable custom of walking her 
rounds in the hush of midnight that caused the super¬ 
stition of the times to invest the old woman with at¬ 
tributes of awe and mystery ; fabling that she had en¬ 
tered the portal of the Province House, none knew 
whence, in the train of the first Royal Governor, and 
that it was her fate to dwell there till the last should 
have departed. But Sir William Howe, if he ever 
heard this legend, had forgotten it. 

“ Mistress Dudley, why are you loitering here ? ” 
asked he, with some severity of tone. “ It is my 
pleasure to be the last in this mansion of the King.” 

“ Not so, if it please your Excellency,” answered 
the time-stricken woman. “ This roof has sheltered 
me long. I will not pass from it until they bear me 
to the tomb of my forefathers. What other shelter is 
there for old Esther Dudley, save the Province House 
or the grave ? ” 

“Now Heaven forgive me!” said Sir William 
Howe to himself. “ I was about to leave this wretched 
old creature to starve or beg. Take this, good Mis¬ 
tress Dudley,” he added, putting a purse into her 
hands. u King George’s head on these golden guineas 
is sterling yet, and will continue so, I warrant you, 
even should the rebels crown John Hancock their 
king. That purse will buy a better shelter than the 
Province House can now afford.” 


332 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ While the burden of life remains upon me, I will 
have no other shelter than this roof,” persisted Esther 
Dudley, striking her staff upon the floor with a gest> 
ure that expressed immovable resolve. “ And when 
your Excellency returns in triumph, I will totter into 
the porch to welcome you.” 

“ My poor old friend! ” answered the British Gen¬ 
eral, — and all his manly and martial pride could no 
longer restrain a gush of bitter tears. “ This is an 
evil hour for you and me. The Province which the 
King intrusted to my charge is lost. I go hence in 
misfortune — perchance in disgrace — to return no 
more. And you, whose present being is incorporated 
with the past — who have seen Governor after Gov¬ 
ernor, in stately pageantry, ascend these steps — whose 
whole life has been an observance of majestic cere¬ 
monies, and a worship of the King — how will you 
endure the change ? Come with us ! Bid farewell to 
a land that has shaken off its allegiance, and live still 
under a royal government, at Halifax.” 

“ Never, never ! ” said the pertinacious old dame. 
“ Here will I abide; and King George shall still have 
one true subject in his disloyal Province.” 

“ Beshrew the old fool! ” muttered Sir William 
Howe, growing impatient of her obstinacy, and 
ashamed of the emotion into which he had been 
betrayed. “ She is the very moral of old-fashioned 
prejudice, and could exist nowhere but in this musty 
edifice. Well, then, Mistress Dudley, since you will 
needs tarry, I give the Province House in charge to 
you. Take this key, and keep it safe until myself, or 
some other Royal Governor, shall demand it of you.’ 

Smiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the 
heavy key of the Province House, and delivering it 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 


333 


into tlie old lady’s hands, drew his cloak around him 
for departure. As the General glanced hack at Es* 
tlier Dudley’s antique figure, he deemed her well fitted 
for such a charge, as being so perfect a representative 
of the decayed past — of an age gone by, with its 
manners, opinions, faith and feelings, all fallen into 
oblivion or scorn — of what had once been a reality, 
but was now merely a vision of faded magnificence. 
Then Sir William Howe strode forth, smiting his 
clinched hands together, in the fierce anguish of his 
spirit; and old Esther Dudley was left to keep watch 
in the lonely Province House, dwelling there with 
memory; and if Hope ever seemed to flit aromid her, 
still was it Memory in disguise. 

The total change of affairs that ensued on the de¬ 
parture of the British troops did not drive the vener¬ 
able lady from her stronghold. There was not, for 
many years afterwards, a Governor of Massachusetts; 
and the magistrates, who had charge of such matters, 
saw no objection to Esther Dudley’s residence in the 
Province House, especially as they must otherwise 
have paid a hireling for taking care of the premises, 
which with her was a labor of love. And so they left 
her the undisturbed mistress of the old historic edifice. 
Many and strange were the fables which the gossips 
whispered about her, in all the chimney corners of the 
town. Among the time-worn articles of furniture that 
had been left in the mansion there was a tall, antique 
mirror, which was well worthy of a tale by itself, and 
perhaps may hereafter he the theme of one. The gold 
of its heavily-wrought frame was tarnished, and its 
surface so blurred, that the old woman’s figure, when¬ 
ever she paused before it, looked indistinct and ghost¬ 
like. But it was the general belief that Esther could 


384 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


3ause the Governors of the overthrown dynasty, with 
the beautiful ladies who had once adorned their festi¬ 
vals, the Indian chiefs who had come up to the Prov¬ 
ince House to hold council or swear allegiance, the 
grim Provincial warriors, the severe clergymen — in 
short, all the pageantry of gone days — all the figures 
that ever swept across the broad plate of glass in 
former times — she could cause the whole to reappear, 
and people the inner world of the mirror with shadows 
of old life. Such legends as these, together with the 
singularity of her isolated existence, her age, and the 
infirmity that each added winter flung upon her, made 
Mistress Dudley the object both of fear and pity; and 
it was partly the result of either sentiment that, amid 
all the angry license of the times, neither wrong nor 
insult ever fell upon her unprotected head. Indeed, 
there was so much haughtiness in her demeanor to¬ 
wards intruders, among whom she reckoned all per¬ 
sons acting under the new authorities, that it was 
really an affair of no small nerve to look her in the 
face. And to do the people justice, stern republicans 
as they had now become, they were well content that 
the old gentlewoman, in her hoop petticoat and faded 
embroidery, should still haunt the palace of ruined 
pride and overthrown power, the symbol of a departed 
system, embodying a history in her person. So Esther 
Dudley dwelt year after year in the Province House, 
still reverencing all that others had flung aside, still 
faithful to her King, who, so long as the venerable 
dame yet held her post, might be said to retain one 
true subject in New England, and one spot of the em¬ 
pire that had been wrested from him. 

And did she dwell there in utter loneliness ? Rumor 
said, not so. Whenever her dull and withered heart 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 


335 


desired warmth, she was wont to summon a black slave 
of Governor Shirley’s from the blurred mirror, and 
send him in search of guests who had long ago been 
familiar in those deserted chambers. Forth went the 
sable messenger, with the starlight or the moonshine 
gleaming through him, and did his errand in the burial 
ground, knocking at the iron doors of tombs, or upon 
the marble slabs that covered them, and whispering to 
those within : “ My mistress, old Esther Dudley, bids 
you to the Province House at midnight.” And punct¬ 
ually as the clock of the Old South told twelve came 
the shadows of the Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the Dud¬ 
leys, all the grandees of a by-gone generation, gliding 
beneath the portal into the well-known mansion, where 
Esther mingled with them as if she likewise were a 
shade. Without vouching for the truth of such tradi¬ 
tions, it is certain that Mistress Dudley sometimes as¬ 
sembled a few of the stanch, though crestfallen, old 
tories, who had lingered in the rebel town during those 
days of wrath and tribulation. Out of a cobwebbed 
bottle, containing liquor that a royal Governor might 
have smacked his lips over, they quaffed healths to 
the King, and babbled treason to the Republic, feel¬ 
ing as if the protecting shadow of the throne were still 
flung around them. But, draining the last drops of 
their liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and an¬ 
swered not again if the rude mob reviled them in the 
street. 

Yet Esther Dudley’s most frequent and favored 
guests were the children of the town. Towards them 
she was never stern. A kindly and loving nature, 
hindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand 
rocky prejudices, lavished itself upon these little ones. 
By bribes of gingerbread of her own making, stamped 


336 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


with a royal crown, she tempted their sunny sportive¬ 
ness beneath the gloomy portal of the Province House, 
and would often beguile them to spend a whole play- 
day there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her 
hoop petticoat, greedily attentive to her stories of a 
dead world. And when these little boys and girls 
stole forth again from the dark, mysterious mansion, 
they went bewildered, full of old feelings that graver 
people had long ago forgotten, rubbing their eyes at 
the world around them as if they had gone astray into 
ancient times, and become children of the past. At 
home, when their parents asked where they had loi¬ 
tered such a weary while, and with whom they had 
been at play, the children would talk of all the de¬ 
parted worthies of the Province, as far back as Gov¬ 
ernor Belcher and the haughty dame of Sir William 
Phipps. It would seem as though they had been sit¬ 
ting on the knees of these famous personages, whom 
the grave had hidden for half a century, and had toyed 
with the embroidery of their rich waistcoats, or rogu¬ 
ishly pulled the long curls of their flowing wigs. 
“ But Governor Belcher has been dead this many a 
year,'’ would the mother say to her little boy. “ And 
did you really see him at the Province House ? ” “ Oh 
yes, dear mother! yes! ” the half-dreaming child would 
answer. “ But when old Esther had done speaking 
about him he faded away out of his chair.” Thus, 
without affrighting her little guests, she led them by 
the hand into the chambers of her own desolate heart, 
and made childhood’s fancv discern the ghosts that 
haunted there. 

Living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and 
never regulating her mind by a proper reference to 
present things, Esther Dudley appears to have grown 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 


337 


partially crazed. It was found that she had no right 
sense of the progress and true state of the Revolution¬ 
ary War, but held a constant faith that the armies of 
Britain were victorious on every field, and destined 
to be ultimately triumphant. Whenever the town re¬ 
joiced for a battle won by Washington, or Gates, or 
Morgan, or Greene, the news, in passing through the 
door of the Province House, as through the ivory gate 
of dreams, became metamorphosed into a strange tale 
of the prowess of Howe, Clinton, or Cornwallis. 
Sooner or later it was her invincible belief the colo¬ 
nies would be prostrate at the footstool of the King. 
Sometimes she seemed to take for granted that such 
was already the case. On one occasion, she startled 
the towns-people by a brilliant illumination of the 
Province House, with candles at every pane of glass, 
and a transparency of the King’s initials and a crown 
of light in the great balcony window. The figure of 
the aged woman in the most gorgeous of her mildewed 
velvets and brocades was seen passing from casement 
to casement, until she paused before the balcony, and 
flourished a huge key above her head. Her wrinkled 
visage actually gleamed with triumph, as if the soul 
within her were a festal lamp. 

“ What means this blaze of light ? What does old 
Esther’s joy portend ? ” whispered a spectator. “ It 
is frightful to see her gliding about the chambers, and 
rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company.” 

“It is as if she were making merry in a tomb,” 
said another. 

“ Pshaw ! It is no such mystery,” observed an old 
man, after some brief exercise of memory. “ Mis¬ 
tress Dudley is keeping jubilee for the King of Eng¬ 
land’s birthday.” 

TOL. 22 


838 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Then the people laughed aloud, and would have 
thrown mud against the blazing transparency of the 
King’s crown and initials, only that they pitied the 
poor old dame, who was so dismally triumphant amid 
the wreck and ruin of the system to which she apper¬ 
tained. 

Oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary 
staircase that wound upward to the cupola, and thence 
strain her dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward, 
watching for a British fleet, or for the march of a 
grand procession, with the King’s banner floating over 
it. The passengers in the street below would discern 
her anxious visage, and send up a shout, “ When the 
golden Indian on the Province House shall shoot his 
arrow, and when the cock on the Old South spire 
shall crow, then look for a Royal Governor again ! ” 
— for this had grown a byword through the town. 
And at last, after long, long years, old Esther Dudley 
knew, or perchance she only dreamed, that a Royal 
Governor was on the eve of returning to the Province 
House, to receive the heavy key which Sir William 
Howe had committed to her charge. Now it was the 
fact that intelligence bearing some faint analogy to 
Esther’s version of it was current among the towns¬ 
people. She set the mansion in the best order that 
her means allowed, and, arraying herself in silks and 
tarnished gold, stood long before the blurred mirror 
to admire her own magnificence. As she gazed, the 
gray and withered lady moved her ashen lips, mur¬ 
muring half aloud, talking to shapes that she saw 
within the mirror, to shadows of her own fantasies, to 
the household friends of memory, and bidding them 
rejoice with her and come forth to meet the Governor. 
And while absorbed in this communion, Mistress Dud- 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 


339 


ley heard the tramp of many footsteps in the street, 
and, looking out at the window, beheld what she con¬ 
strued as the Royal Governor’s arrival. 

“ O happy day ! O blessed, blessed hour! ” she ex¬ 
claimed. “ Let me but bid him welcome within the 
portal, and my task in the Province House, and on 
earth, is done ! ” 

Then with tottering feet, which age and tremulous 
joy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand 
staircase, her silks sweeping and rustling as she went, 
so that the sound was as if a train of spectral courtiers 
were thronging from the dim mirror. And Esther 
Dudley fancied that as soon as the wide door should 
be flung open, all the pomp and splendor of by-gone 
times would pace majestically into the Province House, 
and the gilded tapestry of the past would be bright¬ 
ened by the sunshine of the present. She turned the 
key — withdrew it from the lock — unclosed the door 
— and stepped across the threshold. Advancing up 
the court-yard appeared a person of most dignified 
mien, with tokens, as Esther interpreted them, of gen¬ 
tle blood, high rank, and long-accustomed authority, 
even in his walk and every gesture. He was richly 
dressed, but wore a gouty shoe, which, however, did 
not lessen the stateliness of his gait. Around and 
behind him were people in plain civic dresses, and two 
or three war-worn veterans, evidently officers of rank, 
arrayed in a uniform of blue and buff. But Esther 
Dudley, firm in the belief that had fastened its roots 
about her heart, beheld only the principal personage, 
and never doubted that this was the long-looked-for 
Governor, to whom she was to surrender up her 
charge. As he approached, she involuntary sank down 
on her knees and tremblingly held forth the heavy 
key. 


340 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ Receive my trust! take it quickly! ” cried she.. 
“ for methinks Death is striving to snatch away m* 
triumph. But he comes too late. Thank Heaven for 
this blessed hour! God save King George! ” 

“ That, Madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up 
at such a moment,” replied the unknown guest of the 
Province House, and courteously removing his hat, he 
offered his arm to raise the aged woman. “ Yet, in 
reverence for your gray hairs and long-kept faith, 
Heaven forbid that any here should say you nay. 
Over the realms which still acknowledge his sceptre, 
God save King George! ” 

Esther Dudley started to her feet, and hastily 
clutching back the key, gazed with fearful earnestness 
at the stranger; and dimly and doubtfully, as if sud¬ 
denly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes 
half recognized his face. Years ago she had known 
him among the gentry of the province. But the ban 
of the King had fallen upon him ! How, then, came 
the doomed victim here ? Proscribed, excluded from 
mercy, the monarch’s most dreaded and hated foe, 
this New England merchant had stood triumphantly 
against a kingdom’s strength ; and his foot now trod 
upon humbled Royalty, as he ascended the steps of the 
Province House, the people’s chosen Governor of Mas¬ 
sachusetts. 

u Wretch, wretch that I am!” muttered the old 
woman, with such a heart-broken expression that the 
tears gushed from the stranger’s eyes. “ Have I bid¬ 
den a traitor welcome ? Come, Death ! come quickly ! ” 

“ Alas, venerable lady ! ” said Governor Hancock, 
.'ending her his support with all the reverence that a 
courtier would have shown to a queen. “ Your life 
has been prolonged until the world has changed 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY. 


341 


around you. You have treasured up all that time has 
rendered worthless — the principles, feelings, man¬ 
ners, modes of being and acting, which another gen¬ 
eration has flung aside — and you are a symbol of the 
past. And I, and these around me — we represent 
a new race of men — living no longer in the past, 
scarcely in the present — but projecting our lives for¬ 
ward into the future. Ceasing to model ourselves on 
ancestral superstitions, it is our faith and principle to 
press onward, onward! Yet,” continued he, turning 
to his attendants, “ let us reverence, for the last time, 
the stately and gorgeous prejudices of the tottering 
Past! ” 

While the Republican Governor spoke, he had con¬ 
tinued to support the helpless form of Esther Dudley; 
her weight grew heavier against his arm ; but at last, 
with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient woman 
sank down beside one of the pillars of the portal. 
The key of the Province House fell from her grasp, 
and clanked against the stone. 

“ I have been faithful unto death,” murmured she. 
“ God save the King! ” 

“She hath done her office! ” said Hancock solemnly. 
“ We will follow her reverently to the tomb of her an¬ 
cestors ; and then, my fellow-citizens, onward — on¬ 
ward ! We are no longer children of the Past! ” 


As the old loyalist concluded his narrative, the en¬ 
thusiasm which had been fitfully flashing within his 
sunken eyes, and quivering across his wrinkled visage, 
faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul were 
extinguished. Just then, too, a lamp upon the man¬ 
tel-piece threw out a dying gleam, which vanished as 



342 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


speedily as it shot upward, compelling our eyes to 
grope for one another’s features by the dim glow of 
the hearth. With such a lingering fire, methought, 
with such a dying gleam, had the glory of the ancient 
system vanished from the Province House, when the 
spirit of old Esther Dudley took its flight. And now, 
again, the clock of the Old South threw its voice of 
ages on the breeze, knolling the hourly knell of the 
Past, crying out far and wide through the multitudi¬ 
nous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the dusky 
chamber, with its reverberating depth of tone. In 
that same mansion — in that very chamber — what a 
volume of history had been told off into hours, by the 
same voice that was now trembling in the air. Many 
a Governor had heard those midnight accents, and 
longed to exchange his stately cares for slumber. And 
as for mine host and Mr. Bela Tiffany and the old 
loyalist and me, we had babbled about dreams of the 
past, until we almost fancied that the clock was still 
striking in a bygone century. Neither of us would 
have wondered, had a hoop-petticoated phantom of 
Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber, walking her 
rounds in the hush of midnight, as of yore, and mo¬ 
tioned us to quench the fading embers of the fire, and 
leave the historic precincts to herself and her kindred 
shades. But as no such vision was vouchsafed, I re¬ 
tired unbidden, and would advise Mr. Tiffany to lay 
hold of another auditor, being resolved not to show 
my face in the Province House for a good while hence 
~~ if ever. 


THE HAUNTED MIND. 


W hat a singular moment is the first one, when yon 
have hardly begun to recollect yourself, after starting 
from midnight slumber ? By unclosing your eyes so 
suddenly, you seem to have surprised the personages 
of your dream in full convocation round your bed, 
and catch one broad glance at them before they can 
flit into obscurity. Or, to vary the metaphor, you find 
yourself, for a single instant, wide awake in that realm 
of illusions, whither sleep has been the passport, and 
behold its ghostly inhabitants and wondrous scenery, 
with a perception of their strangeness such as you 
never attain while the dream is undisturbed. The 
distant sound of a church clock is borne faintly on the 
wind. You question with yourself, half seriously, 
whether it has stolen to your waking ear from some 
gray tower that stood within the precincts of your 
dream. While yet in suspense, another clock flings 
its heavy clang over the slumbering town, with so full 
and distinct a sound, and such a long murmur in the 
neighboring air, that you are certain it must proceed 
from the steeple at the nearest corner. You count 
the strokes — one — two, and there they cease, with a 
booming sound, like the gathering of a third stroke 
within the bell. 

If you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of 
the whole night, it would be this. Since your sober 
bedtime, at eleven, you have had rest enough to take 
off the pressure of yesterday’s fatigue; while before 


844 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


you, till the sun comes from “ far Cathay ” to brighten 
your window, there is almost the space of a summer 
night; one hour to be spent in thought, with the 
mind’s eye half shut, and two in pleasant dreams, 
and two in that strangest of enjoyments, the forget- 
fulness alike of joy and woe. The moment of rising 
belongs to another period of time, and appears so dis¬ 
tant that the plunge out of a warm bed into the frosty 
air cannot yet be anticipated with dismay. Yesterday 
has already vanished among the shadows of the past; 
to-morrow has not yet emerged from the future. You 
have found an intermediate space, where the business 
of life does not intrude ; where the passing moment 
lingers, and becomes truly the present; a spot where 
Father Time, when he thinks nobody is watching him, 
sits down by the wayside to take breath. Oh, that 
he would fall asleep, and let mortals live on without 
growing older! 

Hitherto you have lain perfectly still, because the 
slightest motion would dissipate the fragments of your 
slumber. Now, being irrevocably awake, you peep 
through the half-drawn window curtain, and observe 
that the glass is ornamented with fanciful devices in 
frostwork, and that each pane presents something like 
a frozen dream. There will be time enough to trace 
out the analogy while waiting the summons to break¬ 
fast. Seen through the clear portion of the glass, 
where the silvery mountain peaks of the frost scenery 
do not ascend, the most conspicuous object is the stee¬ 
ple ; the white spire of which directs you to the wintry 
lustre of the firmament. You may almost distinguish 
the figures on the clock that has just told the hour. 
Such a frosty sky, and the snow-covered roofs, and the 
long vista of the frozen street, all white, and the dis 


THE HAUNTED MIND. 


345 


fcant water hardened into rock, might make you shiver, 
even under four blankets and a woollen comforter. 
Yet look at that one glorious star! Its beams are dis¬ 
tinguishable from all the rest, and actually cast the 
shadow of the casement on the bed, with a radiance of 
deeper hue than moonlight, though not so accurate an 
outline. 

You sink down and muffle your head in the clothes, 
shivering all the while, but less from bodily chill than 
the bare idea of a polar atmosphere. It is too cold 
even for the thoughts to venture abroad. You specu¬ 
late on the luxury of wearing out a whole existence in 
bed, like an oyster in its shell, content with the slug¬ 
gish ecstasy of inaction, and drowsily conscious of 
nothing but delicious warmth, such as you now feel 
again. Ah! that idea has brought a hideous one in 
its train. You think how the dead are lying in their 
cold shrouds and narrow coffins, through the drear 
winter of the grave, and cannot persuade your fancy 
that they neither shrink nor shiver, when the snow is 
drifting over their little hillocks, and the bitter blast 
howls against the door of the tomb. That gloomy 
thought will collect a gloomy multitude, and throw its 
complexion over your wakeful hour. 

In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and 
a dungeon, though the lights, the music, and revelry 
above may cause us to forget their existence, and the 
buried ones, or prisoners, whom they hide. But some¬ 
times, and oftenest at midnight, these dark receptacles 
are flung wide open. In an hour like this, when the 
mind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength; 
when the imagination is a mirror, imparting vividness 
to all ideas, without the power of selecting or control¬ 
ling them; then pray that your griefs may slumber, 


346 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain. 
It is too late! A funeral train comes gliding by your 
bed, in which Passion and Feeling assume bodily 
shape, and things of the mind become dim spectres to 
the eye. There is your earliest Sorrow, a pale young 
mourner, wearing a sister’s likeness to first love, sadly 
beautiful, with a hallowed sweetness in her melan- 
choly features, and grace in the flow of her sable robe. 
Next appears a shade of ruined loveliness, with dust 
among her golden hair, and her bright garments all 
faded and defaced, stealing from your glance with 
drooping head, as fearfid of reproach; she was your 
fondest Hope, but a delusive one; so call her Disap¬ 
pointment now. A sterner form succeeds, with a brow 
of wrinkles, a look and gesture of iron authority; 
there is no name for him unless it be Fatality, an em¬ 
blem of the evil influence that rules your fortunes; a 
demon to whom you subjected yourself by some error 
at the outset of life, and were bound his slave forever, 
by once obeying him. See ! those fiendish lineaments 
graven on the darkness, the writhed lip of scorn, the 
mockery of that living eye, the pointed finger, touch¬ 
ing the sore place in your heart! Do you remember 
any act of enormous folly at which you would blush, 
even in the remotest cavern of the earth ? Then rec¬ 
ognize your Shame. 

Pass, wretched band! Well for the wakeful one, if, 
riotously miserable, a fiercer tribe do not surround 
him, the devils of a guilty heart, that holds its hell 
within itself. What if Remorse should assume the 
features of an injured friend? What if the fiend 
should come in woman’s garments, with a pale beauty 
amid sin and desolation, and lie down by your side ? 
What if he should stand at your bed’s foot, in the 


THE HAUNTED MIND. 


347 


likeness of a corpse, with a bloody stain upon the 
shroud ? Sufficient, without such guilt, is this night¬ 
mare of the soul; this heavy, heavy sinking of the 
spirits; this wintry gloom about the heart; this indis¬ 
tinct horror of the mind, blending itself with the dark¬ 
ness of the chamber. 

By a desperate effort you start upright, breaking 
from a sort of conscious sleep, and gazing wildly 
round the bed, as if the fiends were anywhere but in 
your haunted mind. At the same moment, the slum¬ 
bering embers on the hearth send forth a gleam which 
palely illuminates the whole outer room, and flickers 
through the door of the bed-chamber, but cannot 
quite dispel its obscurity. Your eye searches for 
whatever may remind you of the living world. With 
eager minuteness you take note of the table near the 
fireplace, the book with an ivory knife between its 
leaves, the unfolded letter, the hat, and the fallen 
glove. Soon the flame vanishes, and with it the whole 
scene is gone, though its image remains an instant in 
your mind’s eye, when darkness has swallowed the 
reality. Throughout the chamber there is the same 
obscurity as before, but not the same gloom within 
your breast. As your head falls back upon the pil¬ 
low, you think — in a whisper be it spoken — how 
pleasant, in these night solitudes, would be the rise 
and fall of a softer breathing than your own, the 
slight pressure of a tenderer bosom, the quiet throb 
of a purer heart, imparting its peacefulness to your 
troubled one, as if the fond sleeper were involving 
you in her dream. 

Her influence is over you, though she have no exist¬ 
ence but in that momentary image. You sink down in 
a flowery spot, on the borders of sleep and wakeful- 


848 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


ness, while your thoughts rise before you in pictures, 
all disconnected, yet all assimilated by a pervading 
gladsomeness and beauty. The wheeling of gorgeous 
squadrons that glitter in the sun is succeeded by the 
merriment of children round the door of a school- 
house, beneath the glimmering shadow of old trees, at 
the corner of a rustic lane. You stand in the sunny 
rain of a summer shower, and wander among the sunny 
trees of an autumnal wood, and look upward at the 
brightest of all rainbows, overarching the unbroken 
sheet of snow, on the American side of Niagara. Your 
mind struggles pleasantly between the dancing radi¬ 
ance round the hearth of a young man and his recent 
bride, and the twittering flight of birds in spring 
about their new-made nest. You feel the merry bound¬ 
ing of a ship before the breeze, and watch the tuneful 
feet of rosy girls as they twine their last and merriest 
dance in a splendid ball-room, and find yourself in the 
brilliant circle of a crowded theatre as the curtain falls 
over a light and airy scene. 

With an involuntary start you seize hold on con¬ 
sciousness, and prove yourself but half awake, by run¬ 
ning a doubtful parallel between human life and the 
hour which has now elapsed. In both you emerge from 
mystery, pass through a vicissitude that you can but 
imperfectly control, and are borne onward to another 
mystery. Now comes the peal of the distant clock, 
with fainter and fainter strokes as you plunge farther 
into the wilderness of sleep. It is the knell of a tem¬ 
porary death. Your spirit has departed, and strays, 
like a free citizen, among the people of a shadowy 
world, beholding strange sights, yet without wonder or 
dismay. So calm, perhaps, will be the final change; so 
undisturbed, as if among familiar things the entrance 
of the soul to its Eternal home! 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE. 


AN IMAGINARY RETROSPECT. 

Come ! another log upon the hearth. True, our lit¬ 
tle parlor is comfortable, especially here, where the old 
man sits in his old arm-chair; but on Thankssivinsr 
night the blaze should dance higher up the chimney, 
and send a shower of sparks into the outer darkness. 
Toss on an armful of those dry oak chips, the last rel¬ 
ics of the Mermaid’s knee timbers, the bones of your 
namesake, Susan. Higher yet, and clearer be the 
blaze, till our cottage windows glow the ruddiest in 
the village, and the light of our household mirth flash 
far across the bay to Nahant. And now, come, Susan, 
come, my children, draw your chairs round me, all of 
you. There is a dimness over your figures! You sit 
quivering indistinctly with each motion of the blaze, 
vliicli eddies about you like a flood, so that you all 
have the look of visions, or people that dwell only in the 
firelight, and will vanish from existence as completely 
is your own shadows when the flame shall sink among 
the embers. Hark! let me listen for the swell of the 
surf; it should be audible a mile inland on a night 
like this. Yes ; there I catch the sound, but only an 
uncertain murmur, as if a good way down over the 
beach ; though, by the almanac, it is high tide at eight 
o’clock, and the billows must now be dashing within 
thirty yards of our door. Ah ! the old man’s ears are 
failing him ; and so is his eyesight, and perhaps his 


i 


350 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


mind; else you would not all be so shadowy in the 
blaze of his Thanksgiving fire. 

How strangely the past is peeping over the shoulders 
of the present! To judge by my recollections, it is 
but a few moments since I sat in another room ; yonder 
model of a vessel was not there, nor the old chest of 
drawers, nor Susan’s profile and mine, in that gilt 
frame; nothing, in short, except this same fire, which 
glimmered on books, papers, and a picture, and half 
discovered my solitary figure in a looking-glass. But 
it was paler than my rugged old self, and younger, too, 
by almost half a century. Speak to me, Susan ; speak, 
my beloved ones; for the scene is glimmering on my 
sight again, and as it brightens you fade away. Oh, 
I should be loath to lose my treasure of past happiness, 
and become once more what I was then ; a hermit in 
the depths of my own mind ; sometimes yawning over 
drowsy volumes, and anon a scribbler of wearier trash 
than what I read; a man who had wandered out of the 
real world and got into its shadow, where his troubles, 
joys, and vicissitudes were of such slight stuff that he 
hardly knew whether he lived, or only dreamed of liv¬ 
ing. Thank Heaven, I am an old man now, and have 
done with all such vanities. 

Still this dimness of mine eyes! Come nearer, Susan, 
and stand before the fullest blaze of the hearth. Now 
I behold vou illuminated from head to foot, in vour 
clean cap and decent gown, with the dear lock of gray 
hair across your forehead, and a quiet smile about your 
mouth, while the eyes alone are concealed by the red 
gleam of the fire upon your spectacles. There, you 
made me tremble again! When the flame quivered, 
my sweet Susan, you quivered with it, and grew indis¬ 
tinct, as if melting into the warm light, that my last 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE. 


351 


glimpse of you might he as visionary as the first was, 
full many a year since. Do you remember it ? You 
stood on the little bridge over the brook that runs 
across King’s Beach into the sea. It was twilight; 
the waves rolling in, the wind sweeping by, the crim¬ 
son clouds fading in the west, and the silver moon 
brightening above the hill; and on the bridge were 
you, fluttering in the breeze like a sea-bird that might 
skim away at your pleasure. You seemed a daughter 
of the viewless wind, a creature of the ocean foam and 
the crimson light, whose merry life was spent in dan¬ 
cing on the crests of the billows, that threw up their 
spray to support your footsteps. As I drew nearer I 
fancied you akin to the race of mermaids, and thought 
how pleasant it would be to dwell with you among the 
quiet coves, in the shadow of the cliffs, and to roam 
along secluded beaches of the purest sand ; and when 
our northern shores grew bleak, to haunt the islands, 
green and lonely, far amid summer seas. And yet it 
gladdened me, after all this nonsense, to find you noth¬ 
ing but a pretty young girl, sadly perplexed with the 
rude behavior of the wind about your petticoats. 

Thus I did with Susan as with most other things in 
my earlier days, dipping her image into my mind and 
coloring it of a thousand fantastic hues, before I could 
see her as she really was. Now, Susan, for a sober 
picture of our village ! It was a small collection of 
dwellings that seemed to have been cast up by the sea, 
with the rockweed and marine plants that it vomits 
after a storm, or to have come ashore among the pipe 
staves and other lumber which had been washed from 
the deck of an eastern schooner. There was just 
space for the narrow and sandy street, between the 
beach in front and a precipitous hill that lifted its 


352 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


rocky forehead in the rear, among a waste of juniper 
bushes and the wild growth of a broken pasture. The 
village was picturesque in the variety of its edifices, 
though all were rude. Here stood a little old hovel, 
built perhaps of driftwood; there a row of boat-houses; 
and beyond them a two-story dwelling, of dark and 
weather-beaten aspect, the whole intermixed with one 
or two snug cottages, painted white, a sufficiency of 
pigsties, and a shoemaker’s shop. Two grocery stores 
stood opposite each other, in the centre of the village. 
These were the places of resort, at their idle hours, of 
a hardy throng of fishermen, in red baize shirts, oil¬ 
cloth trousers, and boots of brown leather covering the 
whole leg ; true seven-league boots, but fitter to wade 
the ocean than walk the earth. The wearers seemed 
amphibious, as if they did but creep out of salt water 
to sun themselves; nor would it have been wonderful 
to see their lower limbs covered with clusters of little 
shell-fish, such as cling to rocks and old ship timber 
over which the tide ebbs and flows. When their fleet 
of boats was weather-bound, the butchers raised their 
price, and the spit was busier than the frying-pan : 
for this was a place of fish, and known as such, to all 
the country round about; the very air was fishy, being 
perfumed with dead sculpins, hardheads, and dogfish 
strewn plentifully on the beach. You see, children, 
the village is but little changed since your mother 
and I were young. 

How like a dream it was, when I bent over a pool 
of water one pleasant morning, and saw that the ocean 
had dashed its spray over me and made me a fisher¬ 
man ! There were the tarpauling, the baize shirt, the 
oil cloth trousers and seven-league boots, and there my 
own features, but so reddened with sunburn and sea 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE. 


353 


breezes, that methought I had another face, and on 
other shoulders too. The sea-gulls and the loons and 
I had now all one trade ; we skimmed the crested 
waves and sought our prey beneath them, the man 
with as keen enjoyment as the birds. Always, when 
the east grew purple, I launched my dory, my little 
flat-bottomed skiff, and rowed cross-handed to Point 
Ledge, the Middle Ledge, or, perhaps beyond Egg 
Hock ; often, too, did I anchor off Dread Ledge, a spot 
of peril to ships unpiloted ; and sometimes spread an 
adventurous sail and tacked across the bay to South 
Shore, casting my lines in sight of Scituate. Ere 
nightfall, I hauled my skiff high and dry on the beach, 
laden with red rock cod, or the white-bellied ones of 
deep water; haddock, bearing the black marks of Saint 
Peter’s fingers near the gills ; the long-bearded hake, 
whose liver holds oil enough for a midnight lamp; and 
now and then a mighty halibut, with a back broad as 
my boat. In the autumn, I trolled and caught those 
lovely fish, the mackerel. When the wind was high, 
— when the whale-boats, anchored off the Point, 
nodded their slender masts at each other, and the do¬ 
ries pitched and tossed in the surf, — when Nahant 
Beach was thundering three miles off, and the spray 
broke a hundred feet in air round the distant base of 
Egg Pock, — when the brimful and boisterous sea 
threatened to tumble over the street of our village, — 
then I made a holiday on shore. 

Many such a day did I sit snugly in Mr. Bartlett’s 
store, attentive to the yarns of Uncle Parker; uncle to 
the whole village by right of seniority, but of southern 
blood, with no kindred in New England. His figure 
is before me now, enthroned upon a mackerel barrel: 

a lean old man, of great height, but bent with years, 

23 


VOL. I. 


354 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and twisted into an uncouth shape by seven broken 
limbs ; furrowed also, and weather-worn, as if every 
gale, for the better part of a century, had caught him 
somewhere on the sea. He looked like a harbinger 
of tempest; a shipmate of the Flying Dutchman. 
After innumerable voyages aboard men-of-war and 
merchant-men, fishing schooners and cliebacco boats, 
the old salt had become master of a handcart, which 
he daily trundled about the vicinity, and sometimes 
blew his fish-horn through the streets of Salem. One 
of Uncle Parker’s eyes had been blown out with gun¬ 
powder, and the other did but glimmer in its socket. 
Turning it upward as he spoke, it was his delight to 
tell of cruises against the French, and battles with his 
own shipmates, when he and an antagonist used to be 
seated astride of a sailor’s chest, each fastened down 
by a spike nail through his trousers, and there to 
fight it out. Sometimes he expatiated on the delicious 
flavor of the hagden, a greasy and goose-like fowl, 
which the sailors catch with hook and line on the 
Grand Banks. He dwelt with rapture on an inter¬ 
minable winter at the Isle of Sables, where he had 
gladdened himself, amid polar snows, with the rum 
and sugar saved from the wreck of a West India 
schooner. And wrathfully did he shake his fist, as 
he related how a party of Cape Cod men had robbed 
him and his companions of their lawful spoil, and 
sailed away with every keg of old Jamaica, leaving 
him not a drop to drown his sorrow. Villains they 
were, and of that wicked brotherhood who are said to 
tie lanterns to horses’ tails, to mislead the mariner 
along the dangerous shores of the Cape. 

Even now, I seem to see the group of fishermen, 
with that old salt in the midst. One fellow sits on 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE. 


355 


the counter, a second bestrides an oil barrel, a third 
lolls at bis length on a parcel of new cod lines, and 
another has planted the tarry seat of his trousers on a 
heap of salt, which will shortly he sprinkled over a lot 
of fish. They are a likely set of men. Some have 
voyaged to the East Indies or the Pacific, and most of 
them have sailed in Marblehead schooners to New¬ 
foundland ; a few have been no farther than the Mid¬ 
dle Banks, and one or two have always fished along 
the shore; but, as Uncle Parker used to say, they have 
all been christened in salt water, and know more than 
men ever learn in the bushes. A curious figure, by 
way of contrast, is a fish dealer from far-up country, 
listening with eyes wide open to narratives that might 
startle Sinbad the Sailor. Be it well with you, my 
brethren! Ye are all gone, some to your graves ashore, 
and others to the depths of ocean; but my faith is 
strong that ye are happy; for whenever I behold your 
forms, whether in dream or vision, each departed 
friend is puffing his long nine, and a mug of the right 
black strap goes round from lip to lip. 

But where was the mermaid in those delightful 
times ? At a certain window near the centre of the 
village appeared a pretty display of gingerbread men 
and horses, picture-books and ballads, small fish¬ 
hooks, pins, needles, sugar-plums, and brass thimbles, 
articles on which the young fishermen used to expend 
their money from pure gallantry. What a picture was 
Susan behind the counter! A slender maiden, though 
the child of rugged parents, she had the slimmest of 
all waists, brown hair curling on her neck, and a com¬ 
plexion rather pale, except when the sea-breeze flushed 
it. A few freckles became beauty-spots beneath her 
eyelids. How was it, Susan, that you talked and acted 


856 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


so carelessly, yet always for the best, doing whatever 
was right in your own eyes, and never once doing 
wrong 1 in mine, nor shocked a taste that had been mor- 
bidly sensitive till now ? And whence had you that 
happiest gift of brightening every topic with an un¬ 
sought gayety, quiet but irresistible, so that even 
gloomy spirits felt your sunshine, and did not shrink 
from it? Nature wrought the charm. She made you 
a frank, simple, kind-hearted, sensible, and mirthful 
girl. Obeying nature, you did free things without 
indelicacy, displayed a maiden’s thoughts to every eye, 
and proved yourself as innocent as naked Eve. 

It was beautiful to observe how her simple and 
happy nature mingled itself with mine. She kindled a 
domestic fire within my heart, and took up her dwell¬ 
ing there, even in that chill and lonesome cavern, 
hung round with glittering icicles of fancy. She gave 
me warmth of feeling, while the influence of my mind 
made her contemplative. I taught her to love the 
moonlight hour, when the expanse of the encircled 
bay was smooth as a great mirror and slept in a trans¬ 
parent shadow; while beyond Nahant the wind rippled 
the dim ocean into a dreamy brightness, which grew 
faint afar off without becoming gloomier. I held her 
hand and pointed to the long surf wave, as it rolled 
calmly on the beach, in an unbroken line of silver; 
we were silent together till its deep and peaceful mur¬ 
mur had swept by us. When the Sabbath sun shone 
down into the recesses of the cliffs, I led the mermaid 
thither, and told her that those huge, gray, shattered 
rocks, and her native sea, that raged forever like a 
storm against them, and her own slender beauty in 
so stern a scene, were all combined into a strain of 
poetry. But on the Sabbath eve, when her mother 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE. 


357 


had gone early to bed, and her gentle sister had smiled 
and left us, as we sat alone by the quiet hearth, with 
household things aromid, it was her turn to make me 
feel that here was a deeper poetry, and that this was 
the dearest hour of all. Thus went on our wooing till 
I had shot wild fowl enough to feather our bridal bed, 
and the Daughter of the Sea was mine. 

I built a cottage for Susan and myself, and made a 
gateway in the form of a Gothic arch, by setting up a 
whale’s jaw-bones. We bought a heifer with her first 
calf, and had a little garden on the hill-side, to supply 
us with potatoes and green sauce for our fish. Our 
parlor, small and neat, was ornamented with our two 
profiles in one gilt frame, and with shells and pretty 
pebbles on the mantel-piece, selected from the sea’s 
treasury of such things, on Nahant Beach. On the 
desk, beneath the looking-glass, lay the Bible, which I 
had begun to read aloud at the book of Genesis, and 
the singing-book that Susan used for her evening 
psalm. Except the almanac, we had no other litera¬ 
ture. All that I heard of books was when an Indian 
history, or tale of shipwreck, was sold by a pedlar or 
wandering subscription man, to some one in the vil¬ 
lage, and read through its owner’s nose to a slumber¬ 
ous auditory. Like my brother fishermen, I grew into 
the belief that all human erudition was collected in 
our pedagogue, whose green spectacles and solemn 
phiz, as he passed to his little school-house amid a 
waste of sand, might have gained him a diploma from 
any college in New England. In truth I dreaded him. 
When our children were old enough to claim his care, 
you remember, Susan, how I frowned, though you 
were pleased, at this learned man’s encomiums on 
their proficiency. I feared to trust them even with 
the alphabet; it was the key to a fatal treasure. 


858 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


But I loved to lead them by their little hands along 
the beach, and point to nature in the vast and the 
minute, the sky, the sea, the green earth, the pebbles, 
and the shells. Then did I discourse of the mighty 
works and coextensive goodness of the Deity, with the 
simple wisdom of a man whose mind had profited by 
lonely days upon the deep, and his heart by the strong 
and pure affections of his evening home. Sometimes 
my voice lost itself in a tremulous depth; for I felt 
His eye upon me as I spoke. Once, while my wife 
and all of us were gazing at ourselves, in the mirror 
left by the tide in a hollow of the sand, I pointed to 
the pictured heaven below, and bade her observe how 
religion was strewn everywhere in our path; since 
even a casual pool of water recalled the idea of that 
home whither we were travelling, to rest forever with 
our children. Suddenly, your image, Susan, and all 
the little faces made up of yours and mine, seemed to 
fade away and vanish around me, leaving a pale visage 
like my own of former days within the frame of a 
large looking-glass. Strange illusion ! 

My life glided on, the past appearing to mingle 
with the present and absorb the future, till the whole 
lies before me at a glance. My manhood has long 
been waning with a stanch decay; my earlier contem¬ 
poraries, after lives of unbroken health, are all at rest, 
without having known the weariness of later age; and 
now, with a wrinkled forehead and thin white hair as 
badges of my dignity, I have become the patriarch, 
the Uncle of the village. I love that name ; it wid¬ 
ens the circle of my sympathies; it joins all the youth¬ 
ful to my household in the kindred of affection. 

Like Uncle Parker, whose rheumatic bones were 
dashed against Egg Rock, full forty years ago, I am 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE. 


859 


a spinner of long yarns. Seated on the gunwale of a 
dory, or on the sunny side of a boat-house, where the 
warmth is grateful to my limbs, or by my own hearth, 
when a friend or two are there, I overflow with talk, 
and yet am never tedious. With a broken voice I 
give utterance to much wisdom. Such, Heaven be 
praised! is the vigor of my faculties, that many a for¬ 
gotten usage, and traditions ancient in my youth, and 
early adventures of myself or others, hitherto effaced 
by things more recent, acquire new distinctness in my 
memory. I remember the happy days when the had¬ 
dock were more numerous on all the fishing grounds 
than sculpins in the surf; when the deep-water cod 
swam close in shore, and the dogfish, with his poison¬ 
ous horn, had not learned to take the hook. I can 
number every equinoctial storm in which the sea has 
overwhelmed the street, flooded the cellars of the vil¬ 
lage, and hissed upon our kitchen hearth. I give the 
history of the great whale that was landed on Whale 
Beach, and whose jaws, being now my gateway, will 
last for ages after my coffin shall have passed beneath 
them. Thence it is an easy digression to the halibut, 
scarcely smaller than the whale, which ran out six cod 
lines, and hauled my dory to the mouth of Boston Har¬ 
bor, before I could touch him with the gaff. 

If melancholy accidents be the theme of conversa¬ 
tion, I tell how a friend of mine was taken out of his 
boat by an enormous shark; and the sad, true tale of 
a young man on the eve of marriage, who had been 
nine days missing, when his drowned body floated into 
the very pathway, on Marblehead Neck, that had often 
led him to the dwelling of his bride, — as if the drip¬ 
ping corpse would have come where the mourner was. 
With such awful fidelity did that lover return to fulfil 


360 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


his vows ! Another favorite story is of a crazy maiden 
who conversed with angels and had the gift of proph¬ 
ecy, and whom all the village loved and pitied, though 
she went from door to door accusing us of sin, exhort¬ 
ing to repentance, and foretelling our destruction by 
flood or earthquake. If the young men boast their 
knowledge of the ledges and sunken rocks, I speak of 
pilots who knew the wind by its scent and the wave 
by its taste, and could have steered blindfold to any 
port between Boston and Mount Desert, guided only 
by the rote of the shore, — the peculiar sound of the 
surf on each island, beach, and line of rocks, along 
the coast. Thus do I talk, and all my auditors grow 
wise while they deem it pastime. 

I recollect no happier portion of my life than this, 
my calm old age. It is like the sunny and sheltered 
slope of a valley, where, late in the autumn, the grass 
is greener than in August, and intermixed with golden 
dandelions that have not been seen till now, since the 
first warmth of the year. But with me the verdure 
and the flowers are not frost-bitten in the midst of win¬ 
ter. A playfulness has revisited my mind ; a sympa¬ 
thy with the young and gay ; an unpainful interest in 
the business of others ; a light and wandering curi¬ 
osity ; arising, perhaps, from the sense that my toil on 
earth is ended, and the brief hour till bedtime may 
be spent in play. Still I have fancied that there is a 
depth of feeling and reflection under this superficial 
levity peculiar to one who has lived long and is soon 
to die. 

Show me anything that would make an infant 
smile, and you shall behold a gleam of mirth over the 
hoary ruin of my visage. I can spend a pleasant hour 
in the sun, watching the sports of the village children 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE. 


361 


on the edge of the surf: now they chase the retreat¬ 
ing wave far down over the wet sand ; now it steals 
softly up to kiss their naked feet; now it comes on¬ 
ward with threatening front, and roars after the laugh¬ 
ing crew, as they scamper beyond its reach. Why 
should not an old man be merry too, when the great 
sea is at play with those little children ? I delight, 
also, to follow in the wake of a pleasure party of young 
men and girls, strolling along the beach after an early 
supper at the Point. Here, with handkerchiefs at 
nose, they bend over a heap of eel-grass, entangled in 
which is a dead skate, so oddly accoutred with two 
legs and a long tail that they mistake him for a 
drowned animal. A few steps farther the ladies 
scream, and the gentlemen make ready to protect 
them against a young shark of the dogfish kind, roll¬ 
ing with a lifelike motion in the tide that has thrown 
him up. Next, they are smit with wonder at the black 
shells of a wagon load of live lobsters, packed in rock- 
weed for the country market. And when they reach 
the fleet of dories, just hauled ashore after the day’s 
fishing, how do I laugh in my sleeve, and sometimes 
roar outright, at the simplicity of these young folks 
and the sly humor of the fishermen! In winter, 
when our village is thrown into a bustle by the arrival 
of perhaps a score of country dealers, bargaining for 
frozen fish, to be transported hundreds of miles, and 
eaten fresh in Vermont or Canada, I am a pleased but 
idle spectator in the throng. For I launch my boat 
no more. 

When the shore was solitary I have found a pleas¬ 
ure that seemed even to exalt my mind, in observing 
the sports or contentions of two gulls, as they wheeled 
and hovered about each other, with hoarse screams, 


362 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


one moment flapping on the foam of the wave, and 
then soaring aloft, till their white bosoms melted into 
the upper sunshine. In the calm of the summer sun¬ 
set I drag my aged limbs, with a little ostentation of 
activity, because I am so old, up to the rocky brow of 
the hill. There I see the white sails of many a ves¬ 
sel, outward bound or homeward from afar, and the 
black trail of a vapor behind the eastern steamboat; 
there, too, is the sun going down, but not in gloom, 
and there the illimitable ocean mingling with the sky, 
to remind me of Eternity. 

But sweetest of all is the hour of cheerful musing 
and pleasant talk, that comes between the dusk and 
the lighted candle, by my glowing fireside. And never, 
even on the first Thanksgiving night, when Susan and 
I sat alone with our hopes, nor the second, when a 
stranger had been sent to gladden us, and be the visi¬ 
ble image of our affection, did I feel such joy as now. 
All that belong to me are here ; Death has taken none, 
nor Disease kept them away, nor Strife divided them 
from their parents or each other; with neither poverty 
nor riches to disturb them, nor the misery of desires 
beyond their lot, they have kept New England’s festi¬ 
val round the patriarch’s board. For I am a patriarch! 
Here I sit among my descendants, in my old arm-chair 
and immemorial corner, while the firelight throws an 
appropriate glory round my venerable frame. Susan ! 
My children! Something whispers me that this hap¬ 
piest hour must be the final one, and that nothing re¬ 
mains but to bless you all, and depart with a treasure 
of recollected joys to heaven. Will you meet me 
there ? Alas! your figures grow indistinct, fading into 
pictures on the air, and now to fainter outlines, while 
the fire is glimmering on the walls of a familiar room, 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE. 


368 


and shows the book that I flung down, and the sheet 
that I left half written, some fifty years ago. I lift 
my eyes to the looking-glass and perceive myself alone, 
unless those be the mermaid’s features retiring into 
the depths of the mirror with a tender and melancholy 
smile. 

Ah! one feels a chillness, not bodily, but about the 
heart, and, moreover, a foolish dread of looking behind 
him, after these pastimes. I can imagine precisely 
how a magician would sit down in gloom and terror, 
after dismissing the shadows that had personated dead 
or distant people, and stripping his cavern of the un¬ 
real splendor which had changed it to a palace. And 
now for a moral to my reverie. Shall it be that, since 
fancy can create so bright a dream of happiness, it 
were better to dream on from youth to age, than to 
awake and strive doubtfully for something real. Oh, 
the slight tissue of a dream can no more preserve us 
from the stern reality of misfortune than a robe of 
cobweb could repel the wintry blast. Be this the 
moral then. In chaste and warm affections, humble 
wishes, and honest toil for some useful end, there is 
health for the mind, and quiet for the heart, the pros¬ 
pect of a happy life, and the fairest hope of heaven. 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 


One September night a family had gathered round 
their hearth, and piled it high with the driftwood of 
mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the 
splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing 
down the precipice. Up the chimney roared the fire, 
and brightened the room with its broad blaze. The 
faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; 
the children laughed; the eldest daughter was the 
image of Happiness at seventeen; and the aged grand¬ 
mother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the 
image of Happiness grown old. They had found the 
“ herb, heart’s-ease,” in the bleakest spot of all New 
England. This family were situated in the Notch of 
the White Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout 
the year, and pitilessly cold in the winter, — giving 
their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it de¬ 
scended on the valley of the Saco. They dwelt in a 
cold spot and a dangerous one; for a mountain tow¬ 
ered above their heads, so steep, that the stones would 
often rumble down its sides and startle them at mid¬ 
night. 

The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that 
filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through 
the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage — 
rattling the door, with a sound of wailing and lamen¬ 
tation, before it passed into the valley. For a moment 
it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in 
the tones. But the family were glad again when they 



THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 


365 


perceived that the latch was lifted by some traveller, 
whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary 
blast which heralded his approach, and wailed as he 
was entering, and went moaning away from the door. 

Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people 
held daily converse with the world. The romantic pass 
of the Notch is a great artery, through which the life¬ 
blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing 
between Maine, on one side, and the Green Mountains 
and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other. The 
stage-coach always drew up before the door of the 
cottage. The wayfarer, with no companion but his 
staff, paused here to exchange a word, that the sense 
of loneliness might not utterly overcome him ere he 
could pass through the cleft of the mountain, or reach 
the first house in the valley. And here the teamster, 
on his way to Portland market, would put up for the 
night; and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond 
the usual bedtime, and steal a kiss from the mountain 
maid at parting. It was one of those primitive tav¬ 
erns where the traveller pays only for food and lodg¬ 
ing, but meets with a homely kindness beyond all price. 
When the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the 
outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, 
grandmother, children, and all, as if about to welcome 
some one who belonged to them, and whose fate was 
linked with theirs. 

The door was opened by a young man. His face at 
first wore the melancholy expression, almost despond¬ 
ency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road, at 
nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he 
saw the kindly warmth of his reception. He felt his 
heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old 
woman, who wiped a chair with her apron, to the little 


866 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


child that held out its arms to him. One glance and 
smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent 
v familiarity with the eldest daughter. 

“ Ah, this fire is the right thing ! ” cried he; “espe¬ 
cially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. I 
am quite benumbed; for the Notch is just like the 
pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible 
blast in my face all the way from Bartlett.” 

“Then you are going towards Vermont?” said the 
master of the house, as he helped to take a light knap¬ 
sack off the young man’s shoulders. 

“ Yes ; to Burlington, and far enough beyond,” re¬ 
plied he. “ I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford’s 
to-night; but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as 
this. It is no matter ; for, when I saw this good fire, 
and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled 
it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. 
So I shall sit down among you, and make myself at 
home.” 

The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair 
to the fire when something like a heavy footstep was 
heard without, rushing down the steep side of the 
mountain, as with long and rapid strides, and taking 
such a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the op¬ 
posite precipice. The family held their breath, be¬ 
cause they knew the sound, and their guest held his by 
instinct. 

“ The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for 
fear we should forget him,” said the landlord, recover¬ 
ing himself. “ He sometimes nods his head and 
threatens to come down ; but we are old neighbors, 
and agree together pretty well upon the whole. Be¬ 
sides we have a sure place of refuge hard by if he 
should be coming in good earnest.” 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 


367 


Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his 
supper of bear’s meat; and, by his natural felicity of 
manner, to have placed himself on a footing of Mild¬ 
ness with the whole family, so that they talked as 
freely together as if he belonged to their mountain 
brood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit — haughty 
and reserved among the rich and great; but ever ready 
to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door, and be like 
a brother or a son at the poor man’s fireside. In the 
household of the Notch he found warmth and simplicity 
of feeling, the pervading intelligence of New England, 
and a poetry of native growth, which they had gath¬ 
ered when they little thought of it from the mountain 
peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their 
romantic and dangerous abode. He had travelled far 
and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary 
path; for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had 
kept himself apart from those who might otherwise 
have been his companions. The family, too, though 
so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity 
among themselves, and separation from the world at 
large, which, in every domestic circle, should still keep 
a holy place where no stranger may intrude. But this 
evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined 
and educated youth to pour out his heart before the 
simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer 
him with the same free confidence. And thus it should 
have been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a 
closer tie than that of birth ? 

The secret of the young man’s character was a high 
and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live 
an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the 
grave. Yearning desire had been transformed to hope; 
and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty. 



368 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to 
beam on all his pathway, — though not, perhaps, while 
he was treading it. But when posterity should gaze 
back into the gloom of what was now the present, they 
would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening 
as meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one 
had passed from his cradle to his tomb with none to 
recognize him. 

“ As yet,” cried the stranger — his cheek glowing 
and his eye flashing with enthusiasm — “ as yet, I 
have done nothing. Were I to vanish from the earth 
to-morrow, none would know so much of me as you: 
that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the 
valley of the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the 
evening, and passed through the Notch by simrise, 
and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, 4 Who 
was he ? Whither did the wanderer go ? ’ But I 
cannot die till I have achieved my destiny. Then, let 
Death come ! I shall have built my monument! ” 

There was a continual flow of natural emotion, gush¬ 
ing forth amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the 
family to understand this young man’s sentiments, 
though so foreign from their own. With quick sensi¬ 
bility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into 
which he had been betrayed. 

“ You laugh at me,” said he, taking the eldest 
daughter’s hand, and laughing himself. “You think 
my ambition as nonsensical as if I were to freeze my¬ 
self to death on the top of Mount Washington, only 
that people might spy at me from the country round 
about. And, truly, that would be a noble pedestal for 
a man’s statue! ” 

“ It is better to sit here by this fire,” answered the 
girl, blushing, “ and be comfortable and contented, 
though nobody thinks about us.” 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 


369 


“ I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of musing, 
“ there is something natural in what the young man 
says ; and if my mind had been turned that way, I 
might have felt just the same. It is strange, wife, 
how his talk has set my head running on things that 
are pretty certain never to come to pass.” 

“ Perhaps they may,” observed the wife. “ Is the 
man thinking what he will do when he is a widower ? ” 

“No, no!” cried he, repelling the idea with re¬ 
proachful kindness. “ When I think of your death, 
Esther, I think of mine, too. But I was wishing we 
had a good farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehem, or Little¬ 
ton, or some other township round the White Mount¬ 
ains ; but not where they could tumble on our heads. 
I should want to stand well with my neighbors and be 
called Squire, and sent to General Court for a term or 
two; for a plain, honest man may do as much good 
there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite 
an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be 
long apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and 
leave you all crying around me. A slate gravestone 
would suit me as well as a marble one — with just my 
name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something 
to let people know that I lived an honest man and died 
a Christian.” 

“ There now ! ” exclaimed the stranger ; “ it is our 
nature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or 
a pillar of granite, or a glorious memory in the uni¬ 
versal heart of man.” 

“We ’re in a strange way, to-night,” said the wife, 
with tears in her eyes. “ They say it’s a sign of 
something, when folks’ minds go a wandering so. 
Hark to the children ! ” 

They listened accordingly. The yomiger children 

vol. i. 24 


870 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


had been put to bed in another room, but with an 
open door between, so that they could be heard talk¬ 
ing busily among themselves. One and all seemed to 
have caught the infection from the fireside circle, and 
were outvying each other in wild wishes, and childish 
projects of what they would do when they came to be 
men and women. At length a little boy, instead of 
addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his 
mother. 

“ I ’ll tell you what I wish, mother,” cried he. “ I 
want you and father and grandma’m, and all of us, 
and the stranger too, to start right away, and go and 
take a drink out of the basin of the Flume ! ” 

Nobody could help laughing at the child’s notion of 
leaving a warm bed, and dragging them from a cheer¬ 
ful fire, to visit the basin of the Flume, — a brook, 
which tumbles over the precipice, deep within the 
Notch. The boy had hardly spoken when a wagon 
rattled along the road, and stopped a moment before 
the door. It appeared to contain two or three men, 
who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus 
of a song, which resounded, in broken notes, between 
the cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to con¬ 
tinue their journey or put up here for the night.” 

“ Father,” said the girl, “ they are calling you by 
name.” 

But the good man doubted whether they had really 
called him, and was unwilling to show himself too 
solicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his 
house. He therefore did not hurry to the door; and 
the lash being soon applied, the travellers plunged 
into the Notch, still singing and laughing, though 
their music and mirth came back drearily from the 
heart of the mountain. 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 371 

“ There, mother ! ” cried the boy, again. “ They’d 
have given us a ride to the Flume.” 

Again they laughed at the child’s pertinacious fancy 
for a night ramble. But it happened that a light cloud 
passed over the daughter’s spirit; she looked gravely 
into the fire, and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. 
It forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to re¬ 
press it. Then starting and blushing, she looked 
quickly round the circle, as if they had caught a 
glimpse into her bosom. The stranger asked what she 
had been thinking of. 

“ Nothing,” answered she, with a downcast smile. 
“ Only I felt lonesome just then.” 

“ Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in 
other people’s hearts,” said he, half seriously. “ Shall 
I tell the secrets of yours ? For I know what to think 
when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth, and com¬ 
plains of lonesomeness at her mother’s side. Shall I 
put these feelings into words?” 

“ They would not be a girl’s feelings any longer if 
they could be put into words,” replied the mountain 
nymph, laughing, but avoiding his eye. 

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love 
was springing in their hearts, so pure that it might 
blossom in Paradise, since it could not be matured on 
earth ; for women worship such gentle dignity as his ; 
and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly soul is often- 
est captivated by simplicity like hers. But while they 
spoke softly, and he was watching the happy sadness, 
the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings of a maiden’s 
nature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper and 
drearier sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger 
said, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast, 
who in old Indian times had their dwelling among 


372 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


these mountains, and made their heights and recesses 
a sacred region. There was a wail along the road, as 
if a funeral were passing. To chase away the gloom, 
the family threw pine branches on their fire, till the 
dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering 
once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. 
The light hovered about them fondly, and caressed 
them all. There were the little faces of the children, 
peeping from their bed apart, and here the father’s 
frame of strength, the mother’s subdued and careful 
mien, the high-browed youth, the budding girl, and 
the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest 
place. The aged woman looked up from her task, 
and, with fingers ever busy, was the next to speak. 

“ Old folks have their notions,” said she, “ as well 
as young ones. You’ve been wishing and planning; 
and letting your heads run on one thing and another, 
till you’ve set my mind a wandering too. Now what 
should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a 
step or two before she comes to her grave ? Children, 
it will haunt me night and day till I tell you.” 

“ What is it, mother ? ” cried the husband and wife 
at once. 

Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which 
drew the circle closer round the fire, informed them 
that she had provided her grave-clothes some years be- 
iore, — a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, 
and everything of a finer sort than she had worn since 
her wedding day. But this evening an old supersti¬ 
tion had strangely recurred to her. It used to be said, 
in her younger days, that if anything were amiss with 
a corpse, if only the ruff were not smooth, or the cap 
did not set right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath 
the clods would strive to put up its cold hands and 
arrange it. The bare thought made her nervous. 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST. 


873 


“ Don’t talk so, grandmother ! ” said the girl, shud¬ 
dering. 

“ Now,” — continued the old woman, with singular 
earnestness, yet smiling strangely at her own folly, — 
u I want one of you, my children —when your mother 
is dressed and in the coffin — I want one of you to 
hold a looking-glass over my face. Who knows but 
I may take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all’s 
right ? ” 

“ Old and young, we dream of graves and monu¬ 
ments,” murmured the stranger youth. “ I wonder 
how mariners feel when the ship is sinking, and they, 
unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried to¬ 
gether in the ocean — that wide and nameless sep¬ 
ulchre ? ” 

For a moment, the old woman’s ghastly conception 
so engrossed the minds of her hearers that a sound 
abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, 
had grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fated 
group were conscious of it. The house and all within 
it trembled ; the foundations of the earth seemed to 
be shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of 
the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild 
glance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, with¬ 
out utterance, or power to move. Then the same 
shriek burst simultaneously from all their lips. 

“The Slide! The Slide!” 

The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, 
the unutterable horror of the catastrophe. The vic¬ 
tims rushed from their cottage, and sought refuge in 
what they deemed a safer spot — where, in contempla¬ 
tion of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been 
reared. Alas! they had quitted their security, and 
fled right into the pathway of destruction. Down 


874 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


came the whole side of the mountain, in a cataract 
of ruin. Just before it reached the house, the stream 
broke into two branches — shivered not a window 
there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up 
the road, and annihilated everything in its dreadful 
course. Long ere the thunder of the great Slide had 
ceased to roar among the mountains, the mortal agony 
had been endured, and the victims were at peace. 
Their bodies were never found. 

The next morning, the light smoke was seen steal¬ 
ing from the cottage chimney up the mountain side. 
Within, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, 
and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabit¬ 
ants had but gone forth to view the devastation of the 
Slide, and would shortly return, to thank Heaven for 
their miraculous escape. All had left separate tokens, 
by which those who had known the family were made 
to shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their 
name? The story has been told far and wide, and 
will forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets 
have sung their fate. 

There were circumstances which led some to sup¬ 
pose that a stranger had been received into the cottage 
on this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe of 
all its inmates. Others denied that there were suffi¬ 
cient grounds for such a conjecture. Woe for the 
high-souled youth, with his dream of Earthly Immor¬ 
tality ! His name and person utterly unknown; his 
history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to 
be solved, his death and his existence equally a doubt! 
Whose was the agony of that death moment ? 


THE SISTER YEARS. 


Last night, between eleven and twelve o’clock, 
when the Old Year was leaving her final footprints on 
the borders of Time’s empire, she found herself in 
possession of a few spare moments, and sat down — 
of all places in the world — on the steps of our new 
City Hall. The wintry moonlight showed that she 
looked weary of body and sad of heart, like many an¬ 
other wayfarer of earth. Her garments, having been 
exposed to much foul weather and rough usage, were 
in very ill condition; and as the hurry of her journey 
had never before allowed her to take an instant’s rest, 
her shoes were so worn as to be scarcely worth the 
mending. But, after trudging only a little distance 
farther, this poor Old Year was destined to enjoy a 
long, long sleep. I forgot to mention that, when she 
seated herself on the steps, she deposited by her side 
a very capacious bandbox, in which, as is the custom 
among travellers of her sex, she carried a great deal 
of valuable property. Besides this luggage, there was 
a folio book under her arm, very much resembling the 
annual volume of a newspaper. Placing this volume 
across her knees, and resting her elbows upon it, with 
her forehead in her hands, the weary, bedraggled, 
world-worn Old Year heaved a heavy sigh, and ap¬ 
peared to be taking no very pleasant retrospect of her 
past existence. 

While she thus awaited the midnight knell that 
was to summon her to the innumerable sisterhood of 


376 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


departed Years, there came a young maiden treading 
lightsomely on tiptoe along the street, from the direc¬ 
tion of the Railroad Depot. She was evidently a 
stranger, and perhaps had come to town by the even¬ 
ing train of cars. There was a smiling cheerfulness 
in this fair maiden’s face, which bespoke her fully 
confident of a kind reception from the multitude of 
people with whom she was soon to form acquaintance. 
Her dress was rather too airy for the season, and was 
bedizened with fluttering ribbons and other vanities, 
which were likely soon to be rent away by the fierce 
storms or to fade in the hot sunshine, amid which she 
was to pursue her changeful course. But still she was 
a wonderfully pleasant looking figure, and had so much 
promise and such an indescribable hopefulness in her 
aspect, that hardly anybody could meet her without an¬ 
ticipating some very desirable thing—the consumma¬ 
tion of some long-sought good — from her kind offices. 
A few dismal characters there may be, here and there 
about the world, who have so often been trifled with 
by young maidens as promising as she, that they have 
now ceased to pin any faith upon the skirts of the 
New Year. But, for my own part, I have great faith 
in her; and should I live to see fifty more such, still, 
from each of these successive sisters, I shall reckon 
upon receiving something that will be worth living for. 

The New Year — for this young maiden was no less 
a personage — carried all her goods and chattels in a 
basket of no great size or weight, which hung upon 
her arm. She greeted the disconsolate Old Year with 
great affection, and sat down beside her on the steps 
of the City Hall, waiting for the signal to begin her 
rambles through the world. The two were own sisters, 
being both granddaughters of Time; and though one 


THE SISTER YEARS. 


377 


looked so much older than the other, it was rather 
owing to hardships and trouble than to age, since 
there was but a twelvemonth’s difference between 
them. 

“Well, my dear sister,” said the New Year, after 
the first salutations, “ you look almost tired to death. 
What have you been about during your sojourn in this 
part of Infinite Space ? ” 

“ Oh, I have it all recorded here in my Book of 
Chronicles,” answered the Old Year, in a heavy tone. 
“ There is nothing that would amuse you ; and you 
will soon get sufficient knowledge of such matters 
from your own personal experience. It is but tire¬ 
some reading.” 

Nevertheless, she turned over the leaves of the folio, 
and glanced at them by the light of the moon, feeling 
an irresistible spell of interest in her own biography, 
although its incidents were remembered without pleas¬ 
ure. The volume, though she termed it her Book of 
Chronicles, seemed to be neither more nor less than the 
“ Salem Gazette ” for 1838 ; in the accuracy of which 
journal this sagacious Old Year had so much confi¬ 
dence that she deemed it needless to record her his¬ 
tory with her own pen. 

“ What have you been doing in the political way ? ” 
asked the New Year. 

“ Why, my course here in the United States,” said 
the Old Year, — “ though perhaps I ought to blush at 
the confession, — my political course, I must acknowl¬ 
edge, has been rather vacillatory, sometimes inclining 
towards the Whigs — then causing the Administrar 
tion party to shout for triumph — and now again up¬ 
lifting what seemed the almost prostrate banner of 
the Opposition ; so that historians will hardly know 


378 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


what to make of me in this respect. But the Loco 
Focos ” — 

44 I do not like these party nicknames,” interrupted 
her sister, who seemed remarkably touchy about some 
points. 44 Perhaps we shall part in better humor if 
we avoid any political discussion.” 

44 With all my heart,” replied the Old Year, who 
had already been tormented half to death with squab¬ 
bles of this kind. 44 I care not if the names of Whig 
or Tory, with their interminable brawls about Banks 
and the Sub-Treasury, Abolition, Texas, the Florida 
War, and a million of other topics — which you will 
learn soon enough for your own comfort — I care not, 
I say, if no whisper of these matters ever reaches my 
ears again. Yet they have occupied so large a share 
of my attention that I scarcely know what else to tell 
you. There has indeed been a curious sort of war on 
the Canada border, where blood has streamed in the 
names of Liberty and Patriotism; but it must remain 
for some future, perhaps far distant Year, to tell 
whether or no those holy names have been rightfully 
invoked. Nothing so much depresses me, in my view 
of mortal affairs, as to see high energies wasted, and 
human life and happiness thrown away, for ends that 
appear oftentimes unwise, and still oftener remain un¬ 
accomplished. But the wisest people and the best 
keep a steadfast faith that the progress of Man kin d 
is onward and upward, and that the toil and anguish 
of the path serve to wear away the imperfections of 
the Immortal Pilgrim, and will be felt no more when 
they have done their office.” 

“ Perhaps,” cried the hopeful New Year, — 44 per¬ 
haps I shall see that happy day ! ” 

44 1 doubt whether it be so close at hand,” answered 


THE SISTER YEARS. 


379 


the Old Year, gravely smiling. “ You will soon grow 
weary of looking for that blessed consummation, and 
will turn for amusement (as has frequently been my 
own practice) to the affairs of some sober little city, 
like this of Salem. Here we sit on the steps of the 
new City Hall, which has been completed under my 
administration ; and it would make you laugh to see 
how the game of politics, of which the Capitol at 
Washington is the great chess-board, is here played 
in miniature. Burning Ambition finds its fuel here; 
here Patriotism speaks boldly in the people’s behalf, 
and virtuous Economy demands retrenchment in the 
emoluments of a lamplighter; here the Aldermen 
range their senatorial dignity around the Mayor’s 
chair of state, and the Common Council feel that they 
have liberty in charge. In short, human weakness 
and strength, passion and policy, Man’s tendencies, 
his aims and modes of pursuing them, his individual 
character and his character in the mass, may be 
studied almost as well here as on the theatre of na¬ 
tions: and with this great advantage, that, be the 
lesson ever so disastrous, its Liliputian scope still 
makes the beholder smile.” 

“ Have you done much for the improvement of the 
City?” asked the New Year. “ Judging from what 
little I have seen, it appears to be ancient and time¬ 
worn.” 

“ I have opened the Railroad,” said the elder Year, 
“ and half a dozen times a day you will hear the bell 
(which once summoned the Monks of a Spanish Con¬ 
vent to their devotions) announcing the arrival or 
departure of the cars. Old Salem now wears a much 
livelier expression than when I first beheld her. 
Strangers rumble down from Boston by hundreds 


380 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


at a time. New faces throng in Essex Street. Rail¬ 
road hacks and omnibuses rattle over the pavements. 
There is a perceptible increase of oyster shops, and 
other establishments for the accommodation of a tran¬ 
sitory diurnal multitude. But a more important 
change awaits the venerable town. An immense ac¬ 
cumulation of musty prejudices will be carried off by 
the free circulation of society. A peculiarity of char¬ 
acter, of which the inhabitants themselves are hardly 
sensible, will be rubbed down and worn away by the 
attrition of foreign substances. Much of the result 
will be good ; there will likewise be a few things not 
so good. Whether for better or worse, there will be 
a probable diminution of the moral influence of 
wealth, and the sway of an aristocratic class, which, 
from an era far beyond my memory, has held firmer 
dominion here than in any other New England town.’* 

The Old Year having talked away nearly all of 
her little remaining breath, now closed her Book of 
Chronicles, and was about to take her departure. But 
her sister detained her a while longer, by inquiring 
the contents of the huge bandbox which she was so 
painfully lugging along with her. 

“These are merely a few trifles,” replied the Old 
Year, “which I have picked up in my rambles, and 
am going to deposit in the receptacle of things past 
and forgotten. We sisterhood of Years never carry 
anything really valuable out of the world with us. 
Here are patterns of most of the fashions which I 
brought into vogue, and which have already lived out 
their allotted term. You will supply their place with 
others equally ephemeral. Here, put up in little 
China pots, like rouge, is a considerable lot of beauti¬ 
ful women’s bloom, which the disconsolate fair ones 


THE SISTER YEARS. 


381 


owe me a bitter grudge for stealing. I have likewise 
a quantity of men’s dark hair, instead of which, I have 
left gray locks, or none at all. The tears of widows 
and other afflicted mortals, who have received com¬ 
fort during the last twelve months, are preserved in 
some dozens of essence bottles, well corked and sealed. 
I have several bundles of love-letters, eloquently 
breathing an eternity of burning passion, which grew 
cold and perished almost before the ink was dry. 
Moreover, here is an assortment of many thousand 
broken promises, and other broken ware, all very light 
and packed into little space. The heaviest articles 
in my possession are a large parcel of disappointed 
hopes, which a little while ago were buoyant enough 
to have inflated Mr. Lauriat’s balloon.” 

“I have a fine lot of hopes here in my basket,” 
remarked the New Year. “ They are a sweet-smelling 
flower — a species of rose.” 

“ They soon lose their perfume,” replied the sombre 
Old Year. “ What else have you brought to insure a 
welcome from the discontented race of mortals?” 

“ Why, to say the truth, little or nothing else,” said 
her sister, with a smile, — “ save a few new Annuals 
and Almanacs, and some New Year’s gifts for the 
children. But I heartily wish well to poor mortals, 
and mean to do all I can for their improvement and 
happiness.” 

“It is a good resolution,” rejoined the Old Year; 
“ and, by the way, I have a plentiful assortment of 
good resolutions, which have now grown so stale and 
musty that I am ashamed to carry them any farther. 
Only for fear that the City authorities would send Con¬ 
stable Mansfield with a warrant after me, I should toss 
them into the street at once. Many other matters go 


382 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


to make up the contents of my bandbox, but the whole 
lot would not fetch a single bid, even at an auction of 
worn-out furniture ; and as they are worth nothing 
either to you or anybody else, I need not trouble you 
with a longer catalogue.” 

“ And must I also pick up such worthless luggage in 
my travels ? ” asked the New Year. 

“ Most certainly — and well, if you have no heavier 
load to bear,” replied the other. u And now, my dear 
sister, I must bid you farewell, earnestly advising and 
exhorting you to expect no gratitude nor good-will from 
this peevish, unreasonable, inconsiderate, ill-intending, 
and worse-behaving world. However warmly its in¬ 
habitants may seem to welcome you, yet, do what you 
may, and lavish on them what means of happiness you 
please, they will still be complaining, still craving what 
it is not in your power to give, still looking forward to 
some other Year for the accomplishment of projects 
which ought never to have been formed, and which, if 
successful, would only provide new occasions of dis¬ 
content. If these ridiculous people ever see anything 
tolerable in you, it will be after you are gone for¬ 
ever.” 

“ But I,” cried the fresh-hearted New Year, “ I 
shall try to leave men wiser than I find them. I will 
offer them freely whatever good gifts Providence per¬ 
mits me to distribute, and will tell them to be thankful 
for what they have, and humbly hopeful for more ; and 
surely, if they are not absolute fools, they will conde¬ 
scend to be happy, and will allow me to be a happy 
Year. For my happiness must depend on them.” 

“ Alas for you, then, my poor sister! ” said the Old 
Year, sighing, as she uplifted her burden. “ We, 
grandchildren of Time, are born to trouble. Happi- 


THE SISTER YEARS. 


383 


ness, they say, dwells in the mansions of Eternity; 
but we can only lead mortals thither, step by step, with 
reluctant murmurings, and ourselves must perish on 
the threshold. But hark! my task is done.” 

The clock in the tall steeple of Dr. Emerson’s 
church struck twelve; there was a response from Dr. 
Flint’s, in the opposite quarter of the city; and while 
the strokes were yet dropping into the air, the Old 
Year either flitted or faded away, — and not the wis¬ 
dom and might of Angels, to say nothing of the re¬ 
morseful yearnings of the millions who had used her 
ill, could have prevailed with that departed Year to 
return one step. But she, in the company of Time 
and all her kindred, must hereafter hold a reckoning 
with Mankind. So shall it be, likewise, with the maid¬ 
enly New Year, who, as the clock ceased to strike, arose 
from the steps of the City Hall, and set out rather 
timorously on her earthly course. 

“A happy New Year!” cried a watchman, eying 
her figure very questionably, but without the least 
suspicion that he was addressing the New Year in 
person. 

“ Thank you kindly! said the New Year; and she 
gave the watchman one of the roses of hope from her 
basket. “ May this flower keep a sweet smell, long 
after I have bidden you good-by.” 

Then she stepped on more briskly through the silent 
streets; and such as were awake at the moment heard 
her footfall, and said, — “ The New Year is come! ” 
Wherever there was a knot of midnight roisterers they 
quaffed her health. She sighed, however, to perceive 
that the air was tainted — as the atmosphere of this 
world must continually be — with the dying breaths of 
mortals who had lingered just long enough for her to 


384 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


bury them. But there were millions left alive to 
rejoice at her coming; and so she pursued her way 
with confidence, strewing emblematic flowers on the 
doorstep of almost every dwelling, which some persons 
will gather up and wear in their bosoms, and others 
will trample under foot. The Carrier Boy can only 
say further that, early this morning, she filled his bas¬ 
ket with New Year’s Addresses, assuring him that the 
whole City, with our new Mayor, and the Aldermen 
and Common Council at its head, would make a general 
rush to secure copies. Kind Patrons, will not you re* 
deem the pledge of the NEW YEAR ? 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


There is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the 
morning! — and, through the partially frosted win¬ 
dow panes, I love to watch the gradual beginning of 
the storm. A few feathery flakes are scattered widely 
through the air, and hover downward with uncertain 
flight, now almost alighting on the earth, now whirled 
again aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere. 
These are not the big flakes, heavy with moisture, 
which melt as they touch the ground, and are porten¬ 
tous of a soaking rain. It is to be, in good earnest, a 
wintry storm. The two or three people visible on the 
sidewalks have an aspect of endurance, a blue-nosed, 
frosty fortitude, which is evidently assumed in antici¬ 
pation of a comfortless and blustering day. By night¬ 
fall, or at least before the sun sheds another glimmer¬ 
ing smile upon us, the street and our little garden will 
be heaped with mountain snow-drifts. The soil, al¬ 
ready frozen for weeks past, is prepared to sustain 
whatever burden may be laid upon it; and, to a 
northern eye, the landscape will lose its melancholy 
bleakness and acquire a beauty of its own, when 
Mother Earth, like her children, shall have put on 
the fleecy garb of her winter’s wear. The cloud 
spirits are slowly weaving her white mantle. As yet, 
indeed, there is barely a rime like hoarfrost over the 
brown surface of the street; the withered grass of the 
grass-plat is still discernible; and the slated roofs of 

the houses do but begin to look gray instead of black. 

25 


VOL. I 


386 TWICE-TOLD TALES. 

All the snow that has yet fallen within the circumfer¬ 
ence of my view, were it heaped up together, would 
hardly equal the hillock of a grave. Thus gradually, 
by silent and stealthy influences, are great changes 
wrought. These little snow particles, which the storm 
spirit flings by handfuls through the air, will bury the 
great earth under their accumulated mass, nor permit 
her to behold her sister sky again for dreary months. 
We, likewise, shall lose sight of our mother’s familiar 
visage, and must content ourselves with looking heaven ¬ 
ward the oftener. 

Now, leaving the storm to do his appointed office, 
let us sit down, pen in hand, by our fireside. Gloomy 
as it may seem, there is an influence productive of 
cheerfulness, and favorable to imaginative thought, in 
the atmosphere of a snowy day. The native of a 
southern clime may woo the muse beneath the heavy 
shade of summer foliage, reclining on banks of turf, 
while the sound of singing birds and warbling rivulets 
chimes in with the music of his soul. In our brief 
summer, I do not think, but only exist in the vague 
enjoyment of a dream. My hour of inspiration — if 
that hour ever comes — is when the green log hisses 
upon the hearth, and the bright flame, brighter for the 
gloom of the chamber, rustles high up the chimney, 
and the coals drop tinkling down among the glowing 
heaps of ashes. When the casement rattles in the 
gust, and the snow-flakes or the sleety raindrops pelt 
hard against the window panes, then I spread out my 
sheet of paper, with the certainty that thoughts and 
fancies will gleam forth upon it like stars at twilight, 
or like violets in May, — perhaps to fade as soon. 
However transitory their glow, they at least shine 
amid the darksome shadow which the clouds of the 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


387 


outward sky fling through the room. Blessed, there¬ 
fore, and reverently welcomed by me, her true-born 
son, be New England’s winter, which makes us, one 
and all, the nurslings of the storm, and sings a famil¬ 
iar lullaby even in the wildest shriek of the December 
blast. Now look we forth again, and see how much of 
his task the storm spirit has done. 

Slow and sure ! He has the day, perchance the 
week, before him, and may take his own time to ac¬ 
complish Nature’s burial in snow. A smooth mantle 
is scarcely yet thrown over the withered grass-plat, 
and the dry stocks of annuals still thrust themselves 
through the white surface in all parts of the garden. 
The leafless rose-bushes stand shivering in a shallow 
snow-drift, looking, poor things ! as disconsolate as if 
they possessed a human consciousness of the dreary 
scene. This is a sad time for the shrubs that do not 
perish with the summer ; they neither live nor die; 
what they retain of life seems but the chilling sense of 
death. Very sad are the flower shrubs in midwinter! 
The roofs of the houses are now all white, save where 
the eddying wind has kept them bare at the bleak cor¬ 
ners. To discern the real intensity of the storm, we 
must fix upon some distant object, — as yonder spire, 
— and observe how the riotous gust fights with the 
descending snow throughout the intervening space. 
Sometimes the entire prospect is obscured ; then, 
again, we have a distinct, but transient, glimpse of 
the tall steeple, like a giant’s ghost; and now the 
dense wreaths sweep between, as if demons were fling¬ 
ing snow-drifts at each other in mid-air. Look next 
into the street, where we have an amusing parallel to 
the combat of those fancied demons in the upper re¬ 
gions. It is a snow battle of school-boys. What a 


388 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


pretty satire on war and military glory might he writ¬ 
ten, in the form of a child’s story, by describing the 
snow-ball fights of two rival schools, the alternate de¬ 
feats and victories of each, and the final triumph of 
one party, or perhaps of neither ! What pitched bat¬ 
tles, worthy to be chanted in Homeric strains ! What 
storming of fortresses, built all of massive snow blocks! 
What feats of individual prowess, and embodied on¬ 
sets of martial enthusiasm ! And when some well-con¬ 
tested and decisive victory had put a period to the 
war, both armies should unite to build a lofty monu¬ 
ment of snow upon the battle-field and crown it with 
the victor’s statue, hewn of the same frozen marble. 
In a few days or weeks thereafter the passer-by would 
observe a shapeless mound upon the level common; 
and, unmindful of the famous victory, would ask, — 
“ How came it there ? W r lio reared it ? And what 
means it ? ” The shattered pedestal of many a battle 
monument has provoked these questions when none 
could answer. 

Turn we again to the fireside, and sit musing there, 
lending our ears to the wind, till perhaps it shall seem 
like an articulate voice, and dictate wild and airy mat¬ 
ter for the pen. Would it might inspire me to sketch 
out the personification of a New England winter! 
And that idea, if I can seize the snow-wreathed fig¬ 
ures that flit before my fancy, shall be the theme of 
the next page. 

How does Winter herald his approach ? By the 
shrieking blast of latter autumn, which is Nature’s cry 
of lamentation, as the destroyer rushes among the 
shivering groves where she has lingered, and scatters 
the sear leaves upon the tempest. When that cry is 
heard, the people wrap themselves in cloaks, and 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


389 


shake their heads disconsolately, saying,— “Winter is 
at hand! ” Then the axe of the woodcutter echoes 
sharp and diligently in the forest; then the coal 
merchants rejoice, because each shriek of Nature in 
her agony adds something to the price of coal per ton; 
then the peat smoke spreads its aromatic fragrance 
through the atmosphere. A few days more ; and at 
eventide the children look out of the window, and 
dimly perceive the flaunting of a snowy mantle in the 
air. It is stern Winter’s vesture.- They crowd around 
the hearth, and cling to their mother’s gown, or press 
between their father’s knees, affrighted by the hollow 
roaring voice that bellows adown the wide flue of the 
chimney. It is the voice of Winter; and when par¬ 
ents and children hear it, they shudder and exclaim, 
— “Winter is come! Cold Winter has begun his 
reign already! ” Now, throughout New England, each 
hearth becomes an altar, sending up the smoke of a 
continued sacrifice to the immitigable deity who tyran¬ 
nizes over forest, country side, and town. Wrapped 
in his white mantle, his staff a huge icicle, his beard 
and hair a wind-tossed snow-drift, he travels over the 
land, in the midst of the northern blast; and woe to 
the homeless wanderer whom he finds upon his path! 
There he lies stark and stiff, a human shape of ice, 
on the spot where Winter overtook him. On strides 
the tyrant over the rushing rivers and broad lakes, 
which turn to rock beneath his footsteps. His dreary 
empire is established ; all around stretches the deso¬ 
lation of the Pole. Yet not ungrateful be his New 
England children — for Winter is our sire, though a 
stem and rough one — not ungrateful even for the se¬ 
verities which have nourished our unyielding strength 
oi character. And let us thank him, too, for the 


390 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


sleigh-rides, cheered by the music of merry bells —• 
for the crackling and rustling hearth, when the ruddy 
firelight gleams on hardy Manhood and the blooming 
cheek of Woman — for all the home enjoyments, and 
the kindred virtues, which flourish in a frozen soil. 
Not that we grieve, when, after some seven months of 
storm and bitter frost, Spring, in the guise of a flower- 
crowned virgin, is seen driving away the hoary despot, 
pelting him with violets by the handful, and strewing 
green grass on the path behind him. Often, ere he 
will give up his empire, old Winter rushes fiercely 
back, and hurls a snow-drift at the shrinking form of 
Spring; yet, step by step, he is compelled to retreat 
northward, and spends the summer months within the 
Arctic circle. 

Such fantasies, intermixed among graver toils of 
mind, have made the winter’s day pass pleasantly. 
Meanwhile, the storm has raged without abatement, 
and now, as the brief afternoon declines, is tossing 
denser volumes to and fro about the atmosphere. On 
the window-sill there is a layer of snow reaching 
half way up the lowest pane of glass. The garden is 
one unbroken bed. Along the street are two or three 
spots of uncovered earth, where the gust has whirled 
away the snow, heaping it elsewhere to the fence tops, 
or piling huge banks against the doors of houses. A 
solitary passenger is seen, now striding mid-leg deep 
across a drift, now scudding over the bare ground, 
while his cloak is swollen with the wind. And now 
the jingling of bells, a sluggish sound, responsive to 
the horse’s toilsome progress through the unbroken 
drifts, announces the passage of a sleigh, with a boy 
clinging behind, and ducking his head to escape detec¬ 
tion by the driver. Next comes a sledge, laden with 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


891 


^ood for some unthrifty housekeeper, whom winter 
has surprised at a cold hearth. But what dismal 
equipage now struggles along the uneven street ? A 
sable hearse, bestrewn with snow, is bearing a dead 
man through the storm to his frozen bed. Oh, how 
dreary is a burial in winter, when the bosom of Mother 
Earth has no warmth for her poor child ! 

Evening — the early eve of December — begins to 
spread its deepening veil over the comfortless scene, 
the firelight gradually brightens, and throws my flick¬ 
ering shadow upon the walls and ceiling of the cham¬ 
ber ; but still the storm rages and rattles against the 
windows. Alas ! I shiver, and think it time to be 
disconsolate. But, taking a farewell glance at dead 
nature in her shroud, I perceive a flock of snow-birds 
skimming lightsomely through the tempest, and flit¬ 
ting from drift to drift, as sportively as swallows in 
the delightful prime of summer. Whence come they? 
Where do they build their nests and seek their food ? 
Why, having airy wings, do they not follow summer 
around the earth, instead of making themselves the 
playmates of the storm, and fluttering on the dreary 
verge of the-winter’s eve ? I know not whence they 
come, nor why; yet my spirit has been cheered by 
that wandering flock of snow-birds. 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 


Rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the 
summer of the year, I came one afternoon to a point 
which gave me the choice of three directions. Straight 
before me the main road extended its dusty length to 
Boston ; on the left a branch went towards the sea, 
and would have lengthened my journey a trifle of 
twenty or thirty miles; while, by the right-hand path 
I might have gone over hills and lakes to Canada, 
visiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford. 
On a level spot of grass, at the foot of the guide-post, 
appeared an object which, though locomotive on a dif¬ 
ferent principle, reminded me of Gulliver’s portable 
mansion among the Brobdignags. It was a huge cov¬ 
ered wagon, or, more properly, a small house on 
wheels, with a door on one side and a window shaded 
by green blinds on the other. Two horses, munching 
provender out of the baskets which muzzled them, 
were fastened near the vehicle: a delectable sound of 
music proceeded from the interior; and I immediately 
conjectured that this was some itinerant show halting 
at the confluence of the roads to intercept such idle 
travellers as myself. A shower had long been climb¬ 
ing up the western sky, and now hung so blackly over 
my onward path that it was a point of wisdom to seek 
shelter here. 

“ Halloo ! Who stands guard here ? Is the door¬ 
keeper asleep ? ” cried I, approaching a ladder of two 
or three steps which was let down from the wagon. 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 


393 


The music ceased at my summons, and there ap¬ 
peared at the door, not the sort of figure that I had 
mentally assigned to the wandering showman, but a 
most respectable old personage, whom I was sorry to 
have addressed in so free a style. He wore a snuff- 
colored coat and smallclothes, with white top-boots, 
and exhibited the mild dignity of aspect and manner 
which may often be noticed in aged schoolmasters, 
and sometimes in deacons, selectmen, or other poten¬ 
tates of that kind. A small piece of silver was my 
passport within his premises, where I found only one 
other person, hereafter to be described. 

“ This is a dull day for business,” said the old gen¬ 
tleman, as he ushered me in ; “ but I merely tarry 
here to refresh the cattle, being bound for the camp¬ 
meeting at Stamford.” 

Perhaps the movable scene of this narrative is still 
peregrinating New England, and may enable the 
reader to test the accuracy of my description. The 
spectacle — for I will not use the unworthy term of 
puppet show — consisted of a multitude of little peo¬ 
ple assembled on a miniature stage. Among them 
were artisans of every kind, in the attitudes of their 
toil, and a group of fair ladies and gay gentlemen 
standing ready for the dance; a company of foot-sol¬ 
diers formed a line across the stage, looking stern, 
grim, and terrible enough, to make it a pleasant con¬ 
sideration that they were but three inches high ; and 
conspicuous above the whole was seen a Merry An¬ 
drew, in the pointed cap and motley coat of his pro¬ 
fession. All the inhabitants of this mimic world were 
motionless, like the figures in a picture, or like that 
people who one moment were alive in the midst of 
their business and delights, and the next were trans- 


394 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


formed to statues, preserving an eternal semblance of 
labor that was ended, and pleasure that could be felt 
no more. Anon, however, the old gentleman turned 
the handle of a barrel organ, the first note of which 
produced a most enlivening effect upon the figures, 
and awoke them all to their proper occupations and 
amusements. By the self-same impulse the tailor 
plied his needle, the blacksmith’s hammer descended 
upon the anvil, and the dancers whirled away on 
feathery tiptoes ; the company of soldiers broke into 
platoons, retreated from the stage, and were succeeded 
by a troop of horse, who came prancing onward with 
such a sound of trumpets and trampling of hoofs as 
might have startled Don Quixote himself; while an old 
toper, of inveterate ill habits, uplifted his black bottle 
and took off a hearty swig. Meantime the Merry An¬ 
drew began to caper and turn somersets, shaking his 
sides, nodding his head, and winking his eyes in as 
life-like a manner as if he' were ridiculing the non¬ 
sense of all human affairs, and making fun of the 
whole multitude beneath him. At length the old 
magician (for I compared the showman to Prospero 
entertaining his guests with a mask of shadows) 
paused that I might give utterance to my wonder. 

“ What an admirable piece of work is tills! ” ex¬ 
claimed I, lifting up my hands in astonishment. 

Indeed I liked the spectacle, and was tickled with 
the old man’s gravity as he presided at it, for I had 
none of that foolish wisdom which reproves every 
occupation that is not useful in this world of vanities. 
If there be a faculty which I possess more perfectly 
than most men, it is that of throwing myself mentally 
into situations foreign to my own, and detecting, with 
a cheerful eye, the desirable circumstances of each 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS . 


395 


I could have envied the life of this gray-headed show¬ 
man, spent as it had been in a course of safe and 
pleasurable adventure, in driving his huge vehicle 
sometimes through the sands of Cape Cod, and some¬ 
times over the rough forest roads of the north and 
east, and halting now on the green before a village 
meeting-house, and now in a paved square of the me¬ 
tropolis. How often must his heart have been glad¬ 
dened by the delight of children as they viewed these 
animated figures! or his pride indulged by harangu¬ 
ing learnedly to grown men on the mechanical powers 
which produced such wonderful effects, or his gal¬ 
lantry brought into play (for this is an attribute 
which such grave men do not lack) by the visits of 
pretty maidens! And then with how fresh a feeling 
must he return, at intervals, to his own peculiar home! 

“ I would I were assured of as happy a life as his,” 
thought I. 

Though the showman’s wagon might have accom¬ 
modated fifteen or twenty spectators, it now contained 
only himself and me, and a third person at whom I 
threw a glance on entering. He was a neat and thin 
young man of two or three and twenty ; his drab hat, 
and green frock coat with velvet collar, were smart, 
though no longer new; while a pair of green specta¬ 
cles that seemed needless to his brisk little eyes gave 
him something of a scholar-like and literary air. 
After allowing me a sufficient time to inspect the 
puppets, he advanced with a bow, and drew my atten¬ 
tion to some books in a corner of the wagon. These 
he forthwith began to extol with an amazing volubil¬ 
ity of well-sounding words, and an ingenuity of praise 
that won him my heart, as being myself one of the 
most merciful of critics. Indeed his stock required 


396 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


some considerable powers of commendation in the 
salesman ; there were several ancient friends of mine, 
the novels of those happy days when my affections 
wavered between the Scottish Chiefs and Thomas 
Thumb; besides a few of later date, whose merits had 
not been acknowledged by the public. I was glad to 
find that dear little venerable volume, the New Eng¬ 
land Primer, looking as antique as ever, though in its 
thousandth new edition; a bundle of superannuated 
gilt picture-books made such a child of me, that partly 
for the glittering covers, and partly for the fairy 
tales within, I bought the whole ; and an assortment 
of ballads and popular theatrical songs drew largely 
on my purse. To balance these expenditures, I med¬ 
dled neither with sermons, nor science, nor morality, 
though volumes of each were there; nor with a Life 
of Franklin in the coarsest of pajDer, but so showily 
bound that it was emblematical of the Doctor himself, 
in the court-dress which he refused to wear at Paris ; 
nor with Webster’s Spelling-Book, nor some of By¬ 
ron’s minor poems, nor half a dozen little Testaments 
at twenty-five cents each. 

Thus far the collection might have been swept from 
some great bookstore, or picked up at an evening auc¬ 
tion room; but there was one small blue-covered pam¬ 
phlet, which the pedlar handed me with so peculiar ail 
air, that I purchased it immediately at his own price; 
and then, for the first time, the thought struck me, 
that I had spoken face to face with the veritable au¬ 
thor of a printed book. The literary man now evinced 
a great kindness for me, and I ventured to inquire 
which way he was travelling. 

“ Oh,” said he, “ I keep company with this old 
gentleman here, and we are moving now towards the 
camp-meeting at Stamford.” 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 


397 


He then explained to me that for the present season 
he had rented a corner of the wagon as a bookstore, 
which, as he wittily observed, was a true Circulating 
Library, since there were few parts of the country 
where it had not gone its rounds. I approved of the 
plan exceedingly, and began to sum up within my 
mind the many uncommon felicities in the life of a 
book pedlar, especially when his character resembled 
that of the individual before me. At a high rate was 
to be reckoned the daily and hourly enjoyment of such 
interviews as the present, in which he seized upon 
the admiration of a passing stranger, and made him 
aware that a man of literary taste, and even of literary 
achievement, was travelling the country in a show¬ 
man’s wagon. A more valuable, yet not infrequent, 
triumph, might be won in his conversations with some 
elderly clergyman, long vegetating in a rocky, woody, 
watery back settlement of New England, who, as he 
recruited his library from the pedlar’s stock of ser¬ 
mons, would exhort him to seek a college education 
and become the first scholar in his class. Sweeter and 
prouder yet would be his sensations when, talking po¬ 
etry while he sold spelling-books, he should charm the 
mind, and haply touch the heart, of a fair country 
schoolmistress, herself an unhonored poetess, a wearer 
of blue stockings which none but himself took pains 
to look at. But the scene of his completest glory 
would be when the wagon had halted for the night, and 
his stock of books was transferred to some crowded 
bar-room. Then would he recommend to the multi¬ 
farious company, whether traveller from the city, or 
teamster from the hills, or neighboring squire, or the 
landlord himself, or his loutish hostler, works suited 
to each particular taste and capacity; proving, all the 


398 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


while, by acute criticism and profoimd remark, that 
the lore in his books was even exceeded by that in his 
brain. 

Thus happily would he traverse the land; some¬ 
times a herald before the march of Mind; sometimes 
walking arm in arm with awful Literature; and reap¬ 
ing everywhere a harvest of real and sensible popular¬ 
ity, which the secluded bookworms, by whose toil he 
lived, could never hope for. 

“ If ever I meddle with literature,” thought I, fix¬ 
ing myself in adamantine resolution, “it shall be as a 
travelling bookseller.” 

Though it was still mid afternoon, the air had now 
grown dark about us, and a few drops of rain came 
down upon the roof of our vehicle, pattering like the 
feet of birds that had flown thither to rest. A sound 
of pleasant voices made us listen, and there soon ap¬ 
peared half-way up the ladder the pretty person of a 
young damsel, whose rosy face was so cheerful that 
even amid the gloomy light it seemed as if the sun¬ 
beams were peeping under her bonnet. We next saw 
the dark and handsome features of a young man, who, 
with easier gallantry than might have been expected 
in the heart of Yankee land, was assisting her into 
the wagon. It became immediately evident to us, 
when the two strangers stood within the door, that 
they were of a profession kindred to those of my com¬ 
panions ; and I was delighted with the more than hos¬ 
pitable, the even paternal, kindness of the old show¬ 
man’s manner, as he welcomed them ; while the man 
of literature hastened to lead the merry-eyed girl to a 
seat on the long bench. 

“ You are housed but just in time, my young 
friends,” said the master of the wagon. “ The sky 
would have been down upon you within five minutes.” 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 


899 


The young man’s reply marked him as a foreigner, 
not by any variation from the idiom and accent of 
good English, but because he spoke with more caution 
and accuracy than if perfectly familiar with the lan¬ 
guage. 

“We knew that a shower was hanging over us,” 
said he, “and consulted whether it were best to enter 
the house on the top of yonder hill, but seeing your 
wagon in the road ” — 

“We agreed to come hither,” interrupted the girl, 
with a smile, “ because we should be more at home in 
a wandering house like this.” 

I meanwhile, with many a wild and undetermined 
fantasy, was narrowly inspecting these two doves that 
had flown into our ark. The young man, tall, agile, 
and athletic, wore a mass of black shining curls clus¬ 
tering round a dark and vivacious countenance, which, 
if it had not greater expression, was at least more act¬ 
ive, and attracted readier notice, than the quiet faces 
of our countrymen. At his first appearance he had 
been laden with a neat mahogany box, of about two 
feet square, but very light in proportion to its size, 
which he had immediately unstrapped from his shoul¬ 
ders and deposited on the floor*of the wagon. 

The girl had nearly as fair a complexion as our 
own beauties, and a brighter one than most of them ; 
the lightness of her figure, which seemed calculated 
to traverse the whole world without weariness, suited 
well with the glowing cheerfulness of her face ; and 
her gay attire, combining the rainbow hues of crim¬ 
son, green, and a deep orange, was as proper to her 
lightsome aspect as if she had been born in it. This 
gay stranger was appropriately burdened with that 
mirth-inspiring instrument, the fiddle, which her com- 



400 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


panion took from her hands, and shortly began the 
process of tuning. Neither of us— the previous com¬ 
pany of the wagon — needed to inquire their trade ; 
for this could be no mystery to frequenters of brigade 
musters, ordinations, cattle-shows, commencements, and 
other festal meetings in our sober land; and there 
is a dear friend of mine who will smile when this 
page recalls to his memory a chivalrous deed per¬ 
formed by us, in rescuing the showbox of such a 
couple from a mob of great double-fisted countrymen. 

“ Come,” said I to the damsel of gay attire, “ shall 
we visit all the wonders of the world together ? ” 

She miderstood the metaphor at once; though in¬ 
deed it would not much have troubled me if she had 
assented to the literal meaning of my words. The 
mahogany box was placed in a proper position, and I 
peeped in through its small round magnifying win¬ 
dow, while the girl sat by my side, and gave short 
descriptive sketches, as one after another the pictures 
were unfolded to my view. We visited together, at 
least our imaginations did, full many a famous city, 
in the streets of which I had long yearned to tread; 
once, I remember, we were in the harbor of Barce¬ 
lona, gazing townwards ; next, she bore me through 
the air to Sicily, and bade me look up at blazing 
iEtna; then we took wing to Venice, and sat in a 
gondola beneath the arch of the Rialto; and anon she 
sat me down among the thronged spectators at the 
coronation of Napoleon. But there was one scene, its 
locality she could not tell, which charmed my attention 
longer than all those gorgeous palaces and churches, 
because the fancy haunted me that I myself, the pre¬ 
ceding summer, had beheld just such a humble meet¬ 
ing-house, in just such a pine-surrounded nook, among 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 


401 


our own green mountains. All these pictures were 
tolerably executed, though far inferior to the girl’s 
touches of description ; nor was it easy to compre¬ 
hend how, in so few sentences, and these, as I sup¬ 
posed, in a language foreign to her, she contrived to 
present an airy copy of each varied scene. When we 
had travelled through the vast extent of the mahogany 
box I looked into my guide’s face. 

“ Where are you going, my pretty maid ? ” in¬ 
quired I, in the words of an old song. 

“ Ah,” said the gay damsel, u you might as well 
ask where the summer wind is going. We are wan¬ 
derers here, and there, and everywhere. Wherever 
there is mirth, our merry hearts are drawn to it. To¬ 
day, indeed, the people have told us of a great frolic 
and festival in these parts; so perhaps we may be 
needed at what you call the camp-meeting at Stam¬ 
ford.” 

Then in my happy youth, and while her pleasant 
voice yet sounded in my ears, I sighed ; for none but 
myself, I thought, should have been her companion in 
a life which seemed to realize my own wild fancies, 
cherished all through visionary boyhood to that hour. 
To these two strangers the world was in its golden 
age, not that indeed it was less dark and sad than 
ever, but because its weariness and sorrow had no 
community with their ethereal nature. Wherever they 
might appear in their pilgrimage of bliss, Youth would 
echo back their gladness, care-stricken Maturity would 
rest a moment from its toil, and Age, tottering among 
the graves, would smile in withered joy for their sakes. 
The lonely cot, the narrow and gloomy street, the 
sombre shade, would catch a passing gleam like that 
now shining on ourselves, as these bright spirits wan- 

vol. i. 26 


402 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


Aered by. Blessed pair, whose happy home was 
throughout all the earth ! I looked at my shoulders, 
and thought them broad enough to sustain those pict¬ 
ured towns and mountains; mine, too, was an elastic 
foot, as tireless as the wing of the bird of paradise ; 
mine was then an untroubled heart, that would have 
gone singing on its delightful way. 

“ O maiden! ” said I aloud, “ why did you not come 
hither alone ? ” 

While the merry girl and myself were busy with 
the showbox, the unceasing rain had driven another 
wayfarer into the wagon. He seemed pretty nearly 
of the old showman’s age, but much smaller, leaner, 
and more withered than he, and less respectably clad 
in a patched suit of gray; withal, he had a thin, 
shrewd countenance, and a pair of diminutive gray 
eyes, which peeped rather too keenly out of their 
puckered sockets. This old fellow had been joking 
with the showman, in a manner which intimated pre¬ 
vious acquaintance ; but perceiving that the damsel 
and I had terminated our affairs, he drew forth a 
folded document, and presented it to me. As I had 
anticipated, it proved to be a circular, written in a 
very fair and legible hand, and signed by several dis¬ 
tinguished gentlemen whom I had never heard of, stat¬ 
ing that the bearer had encountered every variety of 
misfortune, and recommending him to the notice of 
all charitable people. Previous disbursements had 
left me no more than a five-dollar bill, out of which, 
however, I offered to make the beggar a donation, 
provided he would give me change for it. The object 
of my beneficence looked keenly in my face, and dis¬ 
cerned that I had none of that abominable spirit, char¬ 
acteristic though it be, of a full-blooded Yankee, 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 403 

which takes pleasure in detecting every little harmless 
piece of knavery. 

“ Why, perhaps,” said the ragged old mendicant, 
“ if the bank is in good standing, I can’t say but I 
may have enough about me to change your bill.” 

“ It is a bill of the Suffolk Bank,” said I, “ and 
better than the specie.” 

As the beggar had nothing to object, he now pro¬ 
duced a small buff-leather bag, tied up carefully with 
a shoestring. When this was opened, there appeared 
a very comfortable treasure of silver coins, of all sorts 
and sizes ; and I even fancied that I saw, gleaming 
among them, the golden plumage of that rare bird in 
our currency, the American Eagle. In this precious 
heap was my bank-note deposited, the rate of exchange 
being considerably against me. His wants being thus 
relieved, the destitute man pulled out of his pocket an 
old pack of greasy cards, which had probably contrib¬ 
uted to fill the buff-leather bag in more ways than 
one. 

“ Come,” said he, “ I spy a rare fortune in your 
face, and for twenty-five cents more, I ’ll tell you what 
it is. 

I never refuse to take a glimpse into futurity; so, 
after shuffling the cards, and when the fair damsel 
had cut them, I dealt a portion to the prophetic beg¬ 
gar. Like others of his profession, before predicting 
the shadowy events that were moving on to meet me, 
he gave proof of his preternatural science by describ¬ 
ing scenes through which I had already passed. Here 
let me have credit for a sober fact. When the old 
man had read a page in his book of fate, he bent his 
keen gray eyes on mine, and proceeded to relate, in 
all its minute particulars, what was then the most 


404 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


singular event of my life. It was one which I had 
no purpose to disclose till the general unfolding of all 
secrets; nor would it be a much stranger instance of 
inscrutable knowledge, or fortune conjecture, if the 
beggar were to meet me in the street to-day, and re¬ 
peat, word for word, the page which I have here writ¬ 
ten. The fortune-teller, after predicting a destiny 
which Time seems loath to make good, put up his 
cards, secreted his treasure bag, and began to con¬ 
verse with the other occupants of the wagon. 

“Well, old friend,” said the showman, “you have 
not yet told us which way your face is turned this 
afternoon.” 

“I am taking a trip northward, this warm weather,” 
replied the conjurer, “ across the Connecticut first, 
and then up through Vermont, and may be into Can¬ 
ada before the fall. But I must stop and see the 
breaking up of the camp-meeting at Stamford.” 

I began to think that all the vagrants in New Eng¬ 
land were converging to the camp-meeting, and had 
made this wagon their rendezvous by the way. The 
showman now proposed that, when the shower was 
over, they should pursue the road to Stamford to¬ 
gether, it being sometimes the policy of these people 
to form a sort of league and confederacy. 

“And the young lady too,” observed the gallant 
bibliopolist, bowing to her profoundly, “ and this for¬ 
eign gentleman, as I understand, are on a jaunt of 
pleasure to the same spot. It would add incalculably 
to my own enjoyment, and I presume to that of my 
colleague and his friend, if they could be prevailed 
upon to join our party.” 

This arrangement met with approbation on all 
hands, nor were any of those concerned more sensk 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 


405 


ble of its advantages than myself, who had no title 
to be included in it. Having already satisfied myself 
as to the several modes in which the four others at¬ 
tained felicity, I next set my mind at work to discover 
what enjoyments were peculiar to the old “Straggler,” 
as the people of the country would have termed the 
wandering mendicant and prophet. As he pretended 
to familiarity with the Devil, so I fancied that he was 
fitted to pursue and take delight in his way of life, by 
possessing some of the mental and moral character¬ 
istics, the lighter and more comic ones, of the Devil in 
popular stories. Among them might be reckoned a 
love of deception for its own sake, a shrewd eye and 
keen relish for human weakness and ridiculous infirm¬ 
ity, and the talent of petty fraud. Thus to this old 
man there would be pleasure even in the conscious¬ 
ness so insupportable to some minds, that his whole 
life was a cheat upon the world, and that, so far as he 
was concerned with the public, his little cunning had 
the upper hand of its united wisdom. Every day 
would furnish him with a succession of minute and 
pungent triumphs: as when, for instance, his impor¬ 
tunity wrung a pittance out of the heart of a miser; or 
when my silly good nature transferred a part of my 
slender purse to his plump leather bag; or when some 
ostentatious gentleman should throw a coin to the 
ragged beggar who was richer than himself; or when, 
though he would not always be so decidedly diabolical, 
his pretended wants should make him a sharer in the 
scanty living of real indigence. And then what an 
inexhaustible field of enjoyment, both as enabling him 
to discern so much folly and achieve such quantities 
of minor mischief, was opened to his sneering spirit by 
his pretensions to prophetic knowledge. 


406 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


All this was a sort of happiness which I could con¬ 
ceive of, though I had little sympathy with it. Per¬ 
haps, had I been then inclined to admit it, I might 
have found that the roving life was more proper to 
him than to either of his companions; for Satan, to 
whom I had compared the poor man, has delighted, 
ever since the time of Job, in “wandering up and 
down upon the earth ; ” and indeed a crafty disposi¬ 
tion which operates not in deep-laid plans, but in dis¬ 
connected tricks, could not have an adequate scope, 
unless naturally impelled to a continual change of 
scene and society. My reflections were here inter¬ 
rupted. 

“ Another visitor! ” exclaimed the old showman. 

The door of the wagon had been closed against the 
tempest, which was roaring and blustering with pro¬ 
digious fury and commotion, and beating violently 
against our shelter, as if it claimed all those homeless 
people for its lawful prey, while we, caring little for 
the displeasure of the elements, sat comfortably talk¬ 
ing. There was now an attempt to open the door, 
succeeded by a voice uttering some strange, unintel¬ 
ligible gibberish, which my companions mistook for 
Greek, and I suspected to be thieves’ Latin. How¬ 
ever, the showman stepped forward, and gave admit¬ 
tance to a figure which made me imagine, either that 
our wagon had rolled back two hundred years into 
past ages, or that the forest and its old inhabitants 
had sprung up around us by enchantment. 

It was a red Indian, armed with his bow and arrow. 
His dress was a sort of cap, adorned with a single 
feather of some wild bird, and a frock of blue cotton 
girded tight about him; on his breast, like orders of 
knighthood, hung a crescent and a circle, and othei 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 


407 


ornaments of silver; while a small crucifix betokened 
that our Father the Pope had interposed between the 
Indian and the Great Spirit, whom he had worshipped 
in his simplicity. This son of the wilderness and 
pilgrim of the storm took his place silently in the 
midst of us. When the first surprise was over, I 
rightly conjectured him to be one of the Penobscot 
tribe, parties of which I had often seen, in their 
summer excursions down our Eastern rivers. There 
they paddle their birch canoes among the coasting 
schooners, and build their wigwam beside some roar¬ 
ing mill-dam, and drive a little trade in basket work 
where their fathers himted deer. Our new visitor was 
probably wandering through the country towards Bos¬ 
ton, subsisting on the careless charity of the people, 
while he turned his archery to profitable account by 
shooting at cents, which were to be the prize of his 
successful aim. 

The Indian had not long been seated ere our merry 
damsel sought to draw him into conversation. She, 
indeed, seemed all made up of sunshine in the month 
of May; for there was nothing so dark and dismal 
that her pleasant mind could not cast a glow over it; 
and the wild man, like a fir-tree in his native forest, 
soon began to brighten into a sort of sombre cheerful¬ 
ness. At length, she inquired whether his journey 
had any particular end or purpose. 

“ I go shoot at the camp-meeting at Stamford,” re¬ 
plied the Indian. 

“ And here are five more,” said the girl, “ all aim¬ 
ing at the camp-meeting too. You shall be one of us, 
for we travel with light hearts ; and as for me, I sing 
merry songs, and tell merry tales, and am full of 
merry thoughts, and I dance merrily along the road, 


408 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


so that there is never any sadness among them that 
keep me company. But, oh, you would find it very 
dull indeed to go all the way to Stamford alone! ” 

My ideas of the aboriginal character led me to fear 
that the Indian would prefer his own solitary musings 
to the gay society thus offered him; on the contrary, 
the girl’s proposal met with immediate acceptance, and 
seemed to animate him with a misty expectation of en¬ 
joyment. I now gave myself up to a course of thought 
which, whether it flowed naturally from this combina¬ 
tion of events, or was drawn forth by a wayward 
fancy, caused my mind to thrill as if I were listening 
to deep music. I saw mankind, in this weary old age 
of the world, either enduring a sluggish existence amid 
the smoke and dust of cities, or, if they breathed a 
purer air, still lying down at night with no hope but 
to wear out to-morrow, and all the to-morrows which 
make up life, among the same dull scenes and in the 
same wretched toil that had darkened the sunshine of 
to-day. But there were some, full of the primeval in¬ 
stinct, who preserved the freshness of youth to their 
latest years by the continual excitement of new ob¬ 
jects, new pursuits, and new associates; and cared 
little, though their birthplace might have been here 
in New England, if the grave should close over them 
in Central Asia. Fate was summoning a parliament 
of these free spirits ; unconscious of the impulse which 
directed them to a common centre, they had come 
hither from far and near, and last of all appeared 
the representative of those mighty vagrants who had 
chased the deer during thousands of years, and were 
chasing it now in the Spirit Land. Wandering down 
through the waste of ages, the woods had vanished 
around his path; his arm had lost somewhat of its 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 


409 


strength, his foot of its fleetness, his mien of its wild 
regality, his heart and mind of their savage virtue and 
uncultured force; but here, untamable to the routine 
of artificial life, roving now along the dusty road as 
of old over the forest leaves, here was the Indian still. 

“Well,” said the old showman, in the midst of my 
meditations, “here is an honest company of us — one, 
two, three, four, five, six — all going to the camp¬ 
meeting at Stamford. Now, hoping no offence, I 
should like to know where this young gentleman may 
be going?” 

I started. How came I among these wanderers? 
The free mind, that preferred its own folly to an¬ 
other’s wisdom; the open spirit, that found compan¬ 
ions everywhere; above all, the restless impulse, that 
had so often made me wretched in the midst of enjoy¬ 
ments ; these were my claims to be of their society. 

“My friends ! ” cried I, stepping into the centre of 
the wagon, “ I am going with you to the camp-meet¬ 
ing at Stamford.” 

“But in what capacity?” asked the old showman, 
after a moment’s silence. “ All of us here can get our 
bread in some creditable way. Every honest man 
should have his livelihood. You, sir, as I take it, are 
a mere strolling gentleman.” 

I proceeded to inform the company that, when Nat¬ 
ure gave me a propensity to their way of life, she had 
not left me altogether destitute of qualifications for it; 
though I could not deny that my talent was less re¬ 
spectable, and might be less profitable, than the mean¬ 
est of theirs. My design, in short, was to imitate the 
story-tellers of whom Oriental travellers have told us, 
and become an itinerant novelist, reciting my own ex¬ 
temporaneous fictions to such audiences as I could col¬ 
lect. 


410 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


“Either this,” said I, “is my vocation, or I have 
been born in vain.” 

The fortune-teller, with a sly wink to the company, 
proposed to take me as an apprentice to one or other 
of his professions, either of which, undoubtedly, would 
have given full scope to whatever inventive talent I 
might possess. The bibliopolist spoke a few words in 
opposition to my plan, influenced partly, 1 suspect, by 
the jealousy of authorship, and partly by an apprehen¬ 
sion that the viva voce practice would become general 
among novelists, to the infinite detriment of the book 
trade. Dreading a rejection, I solicited the interest 
of the merry damsel. 

“ Mirth,” cried I, most aptly appropriating the 
words of L’Allegro, “ to thee I sue ! Mirth, admit 
me of thy crew! ” 

“Let us indulge the poor youth,” said Mirth, with a 
kindness which made me love her dearly, though I was 
no such coxcomb as to misinterpret her motives. “ I 
have espied much promise in him. True, a shadow 
sometimes flits across his brow, but the sunshine is 
sure to follow in a moment. He is never guilty of a 
sad thought, but a merry one is twin born with it. 
We will take him with us ; and you shall see that he 
will set us all a-laughing before we reach the camp¬ 
meeting at Stamford.” 

Her voice silenced the scruples of the rest, and 
gained me admittance into the league; according to 
the terms of which, without a community of goods or 
profits, we were to lend each other all the aid, and 
avert all the harm, that might be in our power. This 
affair settled, a marvellous jollity entered into the 
whole tribe of us, manifesting itself characteristically 
in each individual. The old showman, sitting down 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS. 411 

to his barrel organ, stirred up the souls of the pygmy 
people with one of the quickest tunes in the music 
book; tailors, blacksmiths, gentlemen and ladies, all 
seemed to share in the spirit of the occasion; and the 
Merry Andrew played his part more facetiously than 
ever, nodding and winking particularly at me. The 
young foreigner flourished his fiddle bow with a mas¬ 
ter’s hand, and gave an inspiring echo to the show¬ 
man’s melody. The bookish man and the merry dam¬ 
sel started up simultaneously to dance ; the former 
enacting the double shuffle in a style which every¬ 
body must have witnessed ere Election week was 
blotted out of time; while the girl, setting her arms 
akimbo with both hands at her slim waist, displayed 
such light rapidity of foot, and harmony of varying 
attitude and motion, that I could not conceive how she 
ever was to stop ; imagining, at the moment, that Nat¬ 
ure had made her, as the old showman had made his 
puppets, for no earthly purpose but to dance jigs. 
The Indian bellowed forth a succession of most hid¬ 
eous outcries, somewhat affrighting us till we inter¬ 
preted them as the war-song, with which, in imitation 
of his ancestors, he was prefacing the assault on Stam¬ 
ford. The conjurer, meanwhile, sat demurely in a cor¬ 
ner, extracting a sly enjoyment from the whole scene, 
and, like the facetious Merry Andrew, directing his 
queer glance particularly at me. 

As for myself, with great exhilaration of fancy, I 
began to arrange and color the incidents of a tale^ 
wherewith I proposed to amuse an audience that very 
evening ; for I saw that my associates were a little 
ashamed of me, and that no time was to be lost in ob¬ 
taining a public acknowledgment of my abilities. 

“ Come, fellow-laborers,” at last said the old show 


412 TWICE-TOLD TALES. 

t 

man, whom we had elected President; “ the shower is 
over, and we must be doing our duty by these poor 
souls at Stamford.” 

“ We ’ll come among them in procession with music 
and dancing,” cried the merry damsel. 

Accordingly — for it must be understood that our 
pilgrimage was to be performed on foot — we sallied 
joyously out of the wagon, each of us, even the old 
gentleman in his white top-boots, giving a great skip 
as we came down the ladder. Above our heads there 
was such a glory of sunshine and splendor of clouds, 
and such brightness of verdure below, that, as I mod¬ 
estly remarked at the time, Nature seemed to have 
washed her face, and put on the best of her jewelry 
and a fresh green gown, in honor of our confederation. 
Casting our eyes northward, we beheld a horseman ap¬ 
proaching leisurely, and splashing through the little 
puddles on the Stamford road. Onward he came, 
sticking up in his saddle with rigid perpendicularity, a 
tall, thin figure in rusty black, whom the showman and 
the conjurer shortly recognized to be, what his aspect 
sufficiently indicated, a travelling preacher of great 
fame among the Methodists. What puzzled us was 
the fact that his face appeared turned from, instead of 
to, the camp-meeting at Stamford. However, as this 
new votary of the wandering life drew near the little 
green space where the guide-post and our wagon were 
situated, my six fellow-vagabonds and myself rushed 
forward and surrounded him, crying out with united 
voices, — 

“ What news, what news from the camp-meeting at 
Stamford ? ” 

The missionary looked down in surprise at as singu¬ 
lar a knot of people as could have been selected from 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS . 


413 


all his heterogeneous auditors. Indeed, considering 
that we might all be classified under the general head 
of Vagabond, there was great diversity of character 
among the grave old showman, the sly, prophetic beg¬ 
gar, the fiddling foreigner and his'merry damsel, the 
smart bibliopolist, the sombre Indian, and myself, the 
itinerant novelist, a slender youth of eighteen. I even 
fancied that a smile was endeavoring to disturb the 
iron gravity of the preacher’s mouth. 

“ Good people,” answered he, “ the camp-meeting is 
broke up.” 

So saying, the Methodist minister switched his steed 
and rode westward. Our union being thus nullified 
by the removal of its object, we were sundered at once 
to the four winds of heaven. The fortune-teller giv¬ 
ing a nod to all, and a peculiar wink to me, departed 
on his northern tour, chuckling within himself as he 
took the Stamford road. The old showman and his 
literary coadjutor were already tackling their horses 
to the wagon, with a design to peregrinate southwest 
along the sea-coast. The foreigner and the merry 
damsel took their laughing leave, and pursued the 
eastern road, which I had that day trodden; as they 
passed away, the young mar played a lively strain and 
the girl’s happy spirit broke into a dance: and thus, 
dissolving, as it were, into sunbeams and gay music, 
that pleasant pair departed from my view. Finally, 
with a pensive shadow thrown across my mind, yet en¬ 
vious of the light philosophy of my late companions, I 
joined myself to the Penobscot Indian and set forth 
towards the distant city. 


THE WHITE OLD MAID. 


The moonbeams came through two deep and nar¬ 
row windows, and showed a spacious chamber richly 
furnished in an antique fashion. From one lattice 
the shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon 
the floor; the ghostly light, through the other, slept 
upon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains, 
and illuminating the face of a young man. But, how 
quietly the slumberer lay! how pale his features! and 
how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his 
frame ! Yes; it was a corpse, in its burial clothes. 

Suddenly, the fixed features seemed to move with 
dark emotion. Strange fantasy! It was but the 
shadow of the fringed curtain waving betwixt the dead 
face and the moonlight, as the door of the chamber 
opened and a girl stole softly to the bedside. Was 
there delusion in the moonbeams, or did her gesture 
and her eye betray a gleam of triumph, as she bent 
over the pale corpse — pale as itself — and pressed her 
living lips to the cold ones of the dead ? As she drew 
back from that long kiss, her features writhed as if 
a proud heart were fighting with its anguish. Again 
it seemed that the features of the corpse had moved 
responsive to her own. Still an illusion! The silken 
curtain had waved, a second time, betwixt the dead 
face and the moonlight, as another fair young girl un¬ 
closed the door, and glided, ghost-like, to the bedside. 
There the two maidens stood, both beautiful, with the 
pale beauty of the dead between them. But she who 


THE WHITE OLD MAID. 


415 


had first entered was proud and stately, and the other 
a soft and fragile thing. 

“Away!” cried the lofty one. “Thou hadst him 
living! The dead is mine ! ” 

“ Thine ! ” returned the other, shuddering. “Well 
hast thou spoken ! The dead is thine! ” 

The proud girl started, and stared into her face 
with a ghastly look. But a wild and mournful ex¬ 
pression passed across the features of the gentle one; 
and weak and helpless, she sank down on the bed, her 
head pillowed beside that of the corpse, and her hair 
mingling with his dark locks. A creature of hope and 
joy, the first draught of sorrow had bewildered her. 

“ Edith ! ” cried her rival. 

Edith groaned, as with a sudden compression of the 
heart; and removing her cheek from the dead youth’s 
pillow, she stood upright, fearfully encountering the 
eyes of the lofty girl. 

“ Wilt thou betray me?” said the latter, calmly. 

“Till the dead bid me speak, I will be silent,” an¬ 
swered Edith. “ Leave us alone together ! Go, and 
live many years, and then return, and tell me of thy 
life. He, too, will be here! Then, if thou tellest of 
sufferings more than death, we will both forgive thee.” 

“ And what shall be the token ? ” asked the proud 
girl, as if her heart acknowledged a meaning in these 
wild words. 

“ This lock of hair,” said Edith, lifting one of the 
dark, clustering curls that lay heavily on the dead 
man’s brow. 

The two maidens joined their hands over the bosom 
of the corpse, and appointed a day and hour, far, far 
in time to come, for their next meeting in that cham¬ 
ber. The statelier girl gave one deep look at the mo 


416 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


tionless countenance, and departed—yet turned again 
and trembled ere she closed the door, almost believing 
that her dead lover frowned upon her. And Edith, 
too! Was not her white form fading into the moon¬ 
light ? Scorning her own weakness she went forth, 
and perceived that a negro slave was waiting in the 
passage with a wax-light, which he held between her 
face and his own, and regarded her, as she thought, 
with an ugly expression of merriment. Lifting his 
torch on high, the slave lighted her down the stair¬ 
case, and undid the portal of the mansion. The young 
clergyman of the town had just ascended the steps, 
and bowing to the lady, passed in without a word. 

Years, many years, rolled on; the world seemed 
new again, so much older was it grown since the night 
when those pale girls had clasped their hands across 
the bosom of the corpse. In the interval, a lonely 
woman had passed from youth to extreme age, and 
was known by all the town as the “ Old Maid in the 
Winding Sheet.” A taint of insanity had affected 
her whole life, but so quiet, sad, and gentle, so utterly 
free from violence, that she was suffered to pursue 
her harmless fantasies, unmolested by the world, with 
whose business or pleasures she had nought to do. 
She dwelt alone, and never came into the daylight, 
except to follow funerals. Whenever a corpse was 
borne along the street in sunshine, rain, or snow: 
whether a pompous train of the rich and proud 
thronged after it, or few and humble were the mourn¬ 
ers, behind them came the lonely woman in a long 
white garment which the people called her shroud. 
She took no place among the kindred or the friends, 
but stood at the door to hear the funeral prayer, and 
walked in the rear of the procession, as one whose 


THE WHITE- OLD MAID. 


417 


earthly charge it was to haunt the house of mourning, 
and be the shadow of affliction, and see that the dead 
were duly buried. So long had this been her custom 
that the inhabitants of the town deemed her a part of 
every funeral, as much as the coffin pall, or the very 
corpse itself, and augured ill of the sinner’s destiny 
unless the “Old Maid in the Winding Sheet” came 
gliding, like a ghost, behind. Once, it is said, she 
affrighted a bridal party with her pale presence, ap¬ 
pearing suddenly in the illuminated hall, just as the 
priest was uniting a false maid to a wealthy man, be¬ 
fore her lover had been dead a year. Evil was the 
omen to that marriage! Sometimes she stole forth by 
moonlight and visited the graves of venerable Integ¬ 
rity, and wedded Love, and virgin Innocence, and 
every spot where the ashes of a kind and faithful heart 
were mouldering. Over the hillocks of those favored 
dead would she stretch out her arms, with a gesture, 
as if she were scattering seeds; and many believed 
that she brought them from the garden of Paradise; 
for the graves which she had visited were green be¬ 
neath the snow, and covered with sweet flowers from 
April to November. Her blessing was better than a 
holy verse upon the tombstone. Thus wore away her 
long, sad, peaceful, and fantastic life, till few were so 
old as she, and the people of later generations won¬ 
dered how the dead had ever been buried, or mourners 
had endured their grief, without the “ Old Maid in 
the Winding Sheet.” 

Still years went on, and still she followed funerals, 
and was not yet summoned to her own festival of 
death. One afternoon the great street of the town 
was all alive with business and hustle, though the sun 
now gilded only the upper half of the church spire, 

vol. i. 27 


418 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


having left the housetops and loftiest trees in shadow. 
The scene was cheerful and animated, in spite of the 
sombre shade between the high brick buildings. Here 
were pompous merchants, in white wigs and laced 
velvet; the bronzed faces of sea-captains; the foreign 
garb and air of Spanish creoles; and the disdainful 
port of natives of Old England; all contrasted with 
the rough aspect of one or two back settlers, negoti¬ 
ating sales of timber from forests where axe had never 
sounded. Sometimes a lady passed, swelling roundly 
forth in an embroidered petticoat, balancing her steps 
in high-heeled shoes, and courtesying with lofty grace 
to the punctilious obeisances of the gentlemen. The 
life of the town seemed to have its very centre not 
far from an old mansion that stood somewhat back 
from the pavement, surrounded by neglected grass, 
with a strange air of loneliness, rather deepened than 
dispelled by the throng so near it. Its site would 
have been suitably occupied by a magnificent Ex¬ 
change or a brick block, lettered all over with various 
signs; or the large house itself might have made a 
noble tavern, with the “ King’s Arms ” swinging be¬ 
fore it, and guests in every chamber, instead of the 
present solitude. But owing to some dispute about 
the right of inheritance, the mansion had been long 
without a tenant, decaying from year to year, and 
throwing the stately gloom of its shadow over the 
busiest part of the town. Such was the scene, and 
such the time, when a figure unlike any that have 
been described was observed at a distance down the 
street. 

“ I espy a strange sail, yonder,” remarked a Liver¬ 
pool captain ; “ that woman in the long white gar¬ 
ment ! ” 


THE WHITE OLD MAID. 


419 


The sailor seemed much struck by the object, as 
were several others who, at the same moment, caught 
a glimpse of the figure that had attracted his notice. 
Almost immediately the various topics of conversa¬ 
tion gave place to speculations, in an undertone, on 
this unwonted occurrence. 

“ Can there be a funeral so late this afternoon ? 
inquired some. 

They looked for the signs of death at every door *— 
the sexton, the hearse, the assemblage of black-clad 
relatives — all that makes up the woful pomp of fu. 
nerals. They raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt 
spire of the church, and wondered that no clang pro¬ 
ceeded from its bell, which had always tolled till now 
when this figure appeared in the light of day. But 
none had heard that a corpse was to be borne to its 
home that afternoon, nor was there any token of a 
funeral, except the apparition of the “ Old Maid in 
the Winding Sheet.” 

“ What may this portend ? ” asked each man of his 
neighbor 

All smiled as they put the question, yet with a cer¬ 
tain trouble in their eyes, as if pestilence or some 
other wide calamity were prognosticated by the un¬ 
timely intrusion among the living of one whose pres¬ 
ence had always been associated with death and woe. 
What a comet is to the earth was that sad woman to 
the town. Still she moved on, while the hum of sur¬ 
prise was hushed at her approach, and the proud and 
the humble stood aside, that her white garment might 
not wave against them. It was a long, loose robe, of 
spotless purity. Its wearer appeared very old, pale, 
emaciated, and feeble, yet glided onward without the 
unsteady pace of extreme age. At one point of her 


420 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


course a little rosy boy burst forth from a door, and 
ran, with open arms, towards the ghostly woman, seem¬ 
ing to expect a kiss from her bloodless lips. She made 
a slight pause, fixing her eye upon him with an expres¬ 
sion of no earthly sweetness, so that the child shivered 
and stood awe-struck, rather than affrighted, while the 
Old Maid passed on. Perhaps her garment might 
have been polluted even by an infant’s touch; perhaps 
her kiss would have been death to the sweet boy within 
a year. 

“ She is but a shadow,” whispered the superstitious. 
“ The child put forth his arms and could not grasp her 
robe! ” 

The wonder was increased when the Old Maid 
passed beneath the porch of the deserted mansion, as¬ 
cended the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron knocker, 
and gave three raps. The people could only conjec¬ 
ture that some old remembrance, troubling her bewil¬ 
dered brain, had impelled the poor woman hither to 
visit the friends of her youth ; all gone from their 
home long since and forever, unless their ghosts still 
haunted it — fit company for the “ Old Maid in the 
Winding Sheet.” An elderly man approached the 
steps, and, reverently uncovering his gray locks, es¬ 
sayed to explain the matter. 

“None, Madam,” said he, “have dwelt in this 
house these fifteen years agone — no, not since the 
death of old Colonel Fenwicke, whose funeral you 
may remember to have followed. His heirs, being 
ill agreed among themselves, have let the mansion- 
house go to ruin.” 

The Old Maid looked slowly round with a slight 
gesture of one hand, and a finger of the other upon 
her lip, appearing more sliadow-like than ever in the 


THE WHITE OLD MAID. 


421 


obscurity of the porch. But again she lifted the ham¬ 
mer, and gave, this time, a single rap. Could it be 
that a footstep was now heard coming down the stair¬ 
case of the old mansion, which all conceived to have 
been so long untenanted ? Slowly, feebly, yet heavily, 
like the pace of an aged and infirm person, the step 
approached, more distinct on every downward stair, 
till it reached the portal. The bar fell on the inside ; 
the door was opened. One upward glance towards 
the church spire, whence the sunshine had just faded, 
was the last that the people saw of the “ Old Maid in 
the Winding Sheet.” 

“ Who undid the door?” asked many. 

This question, owing to the depth of shadow be¬ 
neath the porch, no one could satisfactorily answer. 
Two or three aged men, while protesting against an 
inference which might be drawn, affirmed that the 
person within was a negro, and bore a singular resem¬ 
blance to old Caesar, formerly a slave in the house, but 
freed by death some thirty years before. 

“ Her summons has waked up a servant of the old 
family,” said one, half seriously. 

“ Let us wait here,” replied another. “ More guests 
will knock at the door, anon. But the gate of the 
graveyard should be thrown open ! ” 

Twilight had overspread the town before the crowd 
began to separate, or the comments on this incident 
were exhausted. One after another was wending his 
way homeward, when a coach — no common spectacle 
in those days — drove slowly into the street. It waa 
an old-fashioned equipage, hanging close to the ground,, 
with arms on the panels, a footman behind, and a 
grave, corpulent coachman seated high in front — the 
whole giving an idea of solemn state and dignity 


422 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


There was something awful in the heavy rumbling of 
the wheels. The coach rolled down the street, till, 
coming to the gateway of the deserted mansion, it 
drew up, and the footman sprang to the ground. 

“ Whose grand coach is this ? ” asked a very in¬ 
quisitive body. 

The footman made no reply, but ascended the steps 
of the old house, gave three raps with the iron ham¬ 
mer, and returned to open the coach door. An old 
man, possessed of the heraldic lore so common in that 
day, examined the shield of arms on the panel. 

“ Azure, a lion’s head erased, between three flower- 
de-luces,” said he; then whispered the name of the 
family to whom these bearings belonged. The last 
inheritor of his honors was recently dead, after a long 
residence amid the splendor of the British court, where 
his birth and wealth had given him no mean station. 
“ He left no child,” continued the herald, “ and these 
arms, being in a lozenge, betoken that the coach ap¬ 
pertains to his widow.” 

Further disclosures, perhaps, might have been made, 
had not the speaker suddenly been struck dumb by 
the stern eye of an ancient lady who thrust forth her 
head from the coach, preparing to descend. As she 
emerged, the people saw that her dress was magnifi¬ 
cent, and her figure dignified, in spite of age and in¬ 
firmity — a stately ruin but with a look, at once, of 
pride and wretchedness. Her strong and rigid feat¬ 
ures had an awe about them, unlike that of the white 
Old Maid, but as of something evil. She passed up 
the steps, leaning on a gold-headed cane ; the door 
swung open as she ascended — and the light of a 
torch glittered on the embroidery of her dress, and 
gleamed on the pillars of the porch. After a momen 


THE WHITE OLD MAID. 


423 


fcary pause — a glance backwards — and then a des¬ 
perate effort — she went in. The decipherer of the 
coat of arms had ventured up the lowest step, and 
shrinking back immediately, pale and tremulous, af¬ 
firmed that the torch was held by the very image of 
old Caesar. 

“ But such a hideous grin,” added he, “ was never 
seen on the face of mortal man, black or white ! It 
will haunt me till my dying day.” 

Meantime, the coach had wheeled roimd, with a 
prodigious clatter on the pavement, and rumbled up 
the street, disappearing in the twilight, while the ear 
still tracked its course. Scarcely was it gone, when 
the people began to question whether the coach and 
attendants, the ancient lady, the spectre of old Caesar, 
and the Old Maid herself, were not all a strangely 
combined delusion, with some dark purport in its mys¬ 
tery. The whole town was astir, so that, instead of 
dispersing, the crowd continually increased, and stood 
gazing up at the windows of the mansion, now silvered 
by the brightening moon. The elders, glad to indulge 
the narrative propensity of age, told of the long-faded 
splendor of the family, the entertainments they had 
given, and the gues.ts, the greatest of the land, and 
even titled and noble ones from abroad, who had 
passed beneath that portal. These graphic reminis¬ 
cences seemed to call up the ghosts of those to whom 
they referred. So strong was the impression on some 
of the more imaginative hearers, that two or three 
were seized with trembling fits, at one and the same 
moment, protesting that they had distinctly heard 
three other raps of the iron knocker. 

“ Impossible ! ” exclaimed others. “ See ! The 
moon shines beneath the porch, and shows every part 


424 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


of it, except in the narrow shade of that pillar. There 
is no one there ! ” 

“ Did not the door open ? ” whispered one of these 
fanciful persons. 

“ Didst thou see it, too ? ” said his companion, in a 
startled tone. 

But the general sentiment was opposed to the idea 
that a third visitant had made application at the door 
of the deserted house. A few, however, adhered to 
this new marvel, and even declared that a red gleam 
like that of a torch had shone through the great front 
window, as if the negro were lighting a guest up the 
staircase. This, too, was pronounced a mere fantasy. 
But at once the whole multitude started, and each 
man beheld his own terror painted in the faces of all 
the rest. 

“ What an awful tiling is this! ” cried they. 

A shriek too fearfully distinct for doubt had been 
heard within the mansion, breaking forth suddenly, 
and succeeded by a deep stillness, as if a heart had 
burst in giving it utterance. The people knew not 
whether to fly from the very sight of the house, or to 
rush trembling in, and search out the strange mys¬ 
tery. Amid their confusion and affright, they were 
somewhat reassured by the appearance of their cler¬ 
gyman, a venerable patriarch, and equally a saint, 
who had taught them and their fathers the way to 
heaven for more than the space of an ordinary life¬ 
time. He was a reverend figure, with long, white 
hair upon his shoulders, a white beard upon his breast, 
and a back so bent over his staff that he seemed to 
be looking downward continually, as if to choose a 
proper grave for his weary frame. It was some time 
before the good old man, being deaf and of impaired 


THE WHITE OLD MAID. 


425 


intellect, could be made to comprehend such portions 
of the affair as were comprehensible at all. But, 
when possessed of the facts, his energies assumed un¬ 
expected vigor. 

“Verily,” said the old gentleman, “it will be fitting 
that I enter the mansion-house of the worthy Colonel 
Fenwicke, lest any harm should have befallen that 
true Christian woman whom ye call the 4 Old Maid 
in the Winding Sheet.’ ” 

Behold, then, the venerable clergyman ascending the 
steps of the mansion, with a torch-bearer behind him. 
It was the elderly man who had spoken to the Old 
Maid, and the same who had afterwards explained the 
shield of arms and recognized the features of the ne¬ 
gro. Like their predecessors, they gave three raps 
with the iron hammer. 

“ Old Caesar cometh not,” observed the priest. 
“Well I wot he no longer doth service in this man- 
sion. 

“ Assuredly, then, it was something worse, in old 
Caesar’s likeness ! ” said the other adventurer. 

“ Be it as God wills,” answered the clergyman. 
“ See ! my strength, though it be much decayed, hath 
sufficed to open this heavy door. Let us enter and 
pass up the staircase.” 

Here occurred a singular exemplification of the 
dreamy state of a very old man’s mind. As they 
ascended the wide flight of stairs, the aged clergy¬ 
man appeared to move with caution, occasionally 
standing aside, and oftener bending his head, as it 
were in salutation, thus practising all the gestures of 
one who makes his way through a throng. Reaching 
the head of the staircase, he looked around with sad 
and solemn benignity, laid aside his staff, bared his 


426 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


hoary locks, and was evidently on the point of com¬ 
mencing a prayer. 

“ Reverend Sir,” said his attendant, who conceived 
this a very suitable prelude to their further search, 
“ would it not be well that the people join with us in 
prayer?” 

“Welladay!” cried the old clergyman, staring 
strangely around him. “ Art thou here with me, 
and none other? Verily, past times were present 
to me, and I deemed that I was to make a funeral 
prayer, as many a time heretofore, from the head of 
this staircase. Of a truth, I saw the shades of many 
that are gone. Yea, I have prayed at their burials, 
one after another, and the ‘ Old Maid in the Winding 
Sheet ’ hath seen them to their graves ! ” 

Being now more thoroughly awake to their present 
purpose, he took his staff and struck forcibly on the 
floor, till there came an echo from each deserted cham¬ 
ber, but no menial to answer their summons. They 
therefore walked along the passage, and again paused, 
opposite to the^great front window through which was 
seen the crowd, in the shadow and partial moonlight of 
the street beneath. On their right hand was the open 
door of a chamber, and a closed one on their left. The 
clergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak panel of 
the latter. 

“ Within that chamber,” observed he, “ a whole 
life-time since, did I sit by the death-bed of a goodly 
young man, who, being now at the last gasp ” — 

Apparently there was some powerful excitement in 
the ideas which had now flashed across his mind. He 
snatched the torch from his companion’s hand, and 
threw open the door with such sudden violence that 
the flame was extinguished, leaving them no other 


c 


THE WHITE OLD MAID. 


427 


light than the moonbeams, which fell through two 
windows into the spacious chamber. It was sufficient 
to discover all that could be known. In a high-backed 
oaken arm-chair, upright, with her hands clasped 
across her breast, and her head thrown back, sat the 
“ Old Maid in the Winding Sheet.” The stately 
dame had fallen on her knees, with her forehead on 
the holy knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the 
floor and the other pressed convulsively against her 
heart. It clutched a lock of hair, once , sable, now dis¬ 
colored with a greenish mould. As the priest and lay¬ 
man advanced into the chamber, the Old Maid’s feat¬ 
ures assumed such a semblance of shifting expression 
that they trusted to hear the whole mystery explained 
by a single word. But it was only the shadow of a 
tattered curtain waving betwixt the dead face and the 
moonlight. 

“ Both dead ! ” said the venerable man. “ Then 
who shall divulge the secret ? Methinks it glimmers 
to and fro in my mind, like the light and shadow 
across the Old Maid’s face. And now’t is gone ! ” 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE. 


“ And so, Peter, you won’t even consider of the 
business ? ” said Mr. John Brown, buttoning his sur- 
tout over the snug rotundity of his person, and draw 
ing on his gloves. “ You positively refuse to let me 
have this crazy old house, and the land under and ad¬ 
joining, at the price named ? ” 

“Neither at that, nor treble the sum,” responded 
the gaunt, grizzled, and threadbare Peter Goldthwaite. 
“ The fact is, Mr. Brown, you must find another site 
for your brick block, and be content to leave my es¬ 
tate with the present owner. Next summer, I intend 
to put a splendid new mansion over the cellar of the 
old house.” 

“ Pho, Peter ! ” cried Mr. Brown, as he opened the 
kitchen door ; “ content yourself with building castles 
in the air, where house-lots are cheaper than on earth, 
to say nothing of the cost of bricks and mortar. Such 
foundations are solid enough for your edifices, while 
this underneath us is just the thing for mine ; and so 
we may both be suited. What say you again?” 

“ Precisely what I said before, Mr. Brown,” an¬ 
swered Peter Goldthwaite. “ And as for castles in 
the air, mine may not be as magnificent as that sort of 
architecture, but perhaps as substantial, Mr. Brown, 
as the very respectable brick block with dry goods 
stores, tailors’ shops, and banking rooms on the lower 
floor, and lawyers’ offices in the second story, which 
you are so anxious to substitute.” 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE. 429 


“ And the cost, Peter, eh?” said Mr. Brown, as he 
withdrew, in something of a pet. “That, I suppose, 
will be provided for, off-hand, by drawing a check on 
Bubble Bank! ” 

John Brown and Peter Goldthwaite had been jointly 
known to the commercial world between twenty and 
thirty years before, under the firm of Goldthwaite & 
Brown; which copartnership, however, was speedily 
dissolved by the natural incongruity of its constituent 
parts. Since that event, John Brown, with exactly 
the qualities of a thousand other J ohn Browns, and by 
just such plodding methods as they used, had pros¬ 
pered wonderfully, and become one of the wealthiest 
John Browns on earth. Peter Goldthwaite, on the con¬ 
trary, after innumerable schemes, which ought to have 
collected all the coin and paper currency of the coun¬ 
try into his coffers, was as needy a gentleman as ever 
wore a patch upon his elbow. The contrast between 
him and his former partner may be briefly marked; 
for Brown never reckoned upon luck, yet always had 
it; while Peter made luck the main condition of his 
projects, and always missed it. While the means held 
out, his speculations had been magnificent, but were 
chiefly confined, of late years, to such small business 
as adventures in the lottery. Once he had gone on 
a gold-gathering expedition somewhere to the South, 
and ingeniously contrived to empty his pockets more 
thoroughly than ever; while others, doubtless, were 
filling theirs with native bullion by the handful. More 
recently he had expended a legacy of a thousand or 
two of dollars in purchasing Mexican scrip, and 
thereby became the proprietor of a province; which, 
however, so far as Peter could find out, was situated 
where he might have had an empire for the same 


430 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


money, — in the clouds. From a search after this val¬ 
uable real estate Peter returned so gaunt and thread¬ 
bare that, on reaching New England, the scarecrows 
in the cornfields beckoned to him, as he passed by. 
“They did but flutter in the wind,” quoth Peter 
Goldthwaite. No, Peter, they beckoned, for the scare¬ 
crows knew their brother! 

At the period of our story his whole visible income 
would not have paid the tax of the old mansion in 
which we find him. It was one of those rusty, moss- 
grown, many-peaked wooden houses, which are scat¬ 
tered about the streets of our elder towns, with a 
beetle-browed second story projecting over the foun¬ 
dation, as if it frowned at the novelty around it. This 
old paternal edifice, needy as he was, and though, 
being centrally situated on the principal street of the 
town, it would have brought him a handsome sum, the 
sagacious Peter had his own reasons for never parting 
with, either by auction or private sale. There seemed, 
indeed, to be a fatality that connected him with his 
birthplace ; for, often as he had stood on the verge of 
ruin, and standing there even now, he had not yet 
taken the step beyond it which would have compelled 
him to surrender the house to his creditors. So here 
he dwelt with bad luck till good should come. 

Here then in his kitchen, the only room where a 
spark of fire took off the chill of a November even¬ 
ing, poor Peter Goldthwaite had just been visited by 
his rich old partner. At the close of their interview, 
Peter, with rather a mortified look, glanced down¬ 
wards at his dress, parts of which appeared as ancient 
as the days of Goldthwaite & Brown. His upper gar¬ 
ment was a mixed surtout, wofully faded, and patched 
with newer stuff on each elbow; beneath this he wore 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE. 431 


a threadbare black coat, some of the silk buttons of 
which had been replaced with others of a different 
pattern ; and lastly, though he lacked not a pair of 
gray pantaloons, they were very shabby ones, and had 
been partially turned brown by the frequent toasting 
of Peter’s shins before a scanty fire. Peter’s person 
was in keeping with his goodly apparel. Gray-headed, 
hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked, and lean-bodied, he was 
the perfect picture of a man who had fed on windy 
schemes and empty hopes, till he could neither live on 
such unwholesome trash, nor stomach more substantial 
food. But, withal, this Peter Goldthwaite, crack- 
brained simpleton as, perhaps, he was, might have cut 
a very brilliant figure in the world, had he employed 
his imagination in the airy business of poetry, instead 
of making it a demon of mischief in mercantile pur¬ 
suits. After all, he was no bad fellow, but as harm¬ 
less as a child, and as honest and honorable, and as 
much of the gentleman which nature meant him for, 
as an irregular life and depressed circumstances will 
permit any man to be. 

As Peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth, 
looking round at the disconsolate old kitchen, his eyes 
began to kindle with the illumination of an enthusi¬ 
asm that never long deserted him. He raised his 
hand, clinched it, and smote it energetically against 
the smoky panel over the fireplace. 

“The time is come!” said he. “With such a 
treasure at command, it were folly to be a poor man 
any longer. To-morrow morning I will begin with the 
garret, nor desist till I have torn the house down! ” 

Deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark 
cavern, sat a little old woman, mending one of the 
two pairs of stockings wherewith Peter Goldtliwaite 


432 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


kept his toes from being frostbitten. As the feet were 
ragged past all darning, she had cut pieces out of a 
cast-off flannel petticoat, to make new soles. Tabitha 
Porter was an old maid, upwards of sixty years of 
age, fifty-five of which she had sat in that same chim¬ 
ney-corner, such being the length of time since Peter’s 
grandfather had taken her from the almshouse. She 
had no friend but Peter, nor Peter any friend but 
Tabitha; so long as Peter might have a shelter for 
his own head, Tabitha would know where to shelter 
hers; or, being homeless elsewhere, she would take 
her master by the hand and bring him to her native 
home, the almshouse. Should it ever be necessary, 
she loved him well enough to feed him with her last 
morsel, and clothe him with her under petticoat. But 
Tabitha was a queer old woman, and, though never 
infected with Peter’s flightiness, had become so accus¬ 
tomed to his freaks and follies that she viewed them 
all as matters of course. Hearing him threaten to 
tear the house down, she looked quietly up from her 
work. 

“Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter,” 
said she. 

“ The sooner we have it all down the better,” said 
Peter Goldthwaite. “ I am tired to death of living 
in this cold, dark, windy, smoky, creaking, groaning, 
dismal old house. I shall feel like a younger man 
when we get into my splendid brick mansion, as, 
please Heaven, we shall by this time next autumn. 
You shall have a room on the sunny side, old Tabby, 
finished and furnished as best may suit your own no¬ 
tions.” 

“ I should like it pretty much such a room as this 
kitchen,” answered Tabitha. “ It will never be like 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE. 433 


home to me till the chimney-corner gets as black with 
smoke as this ; and that won’t he these hundred years. 
How much do you mean to lay out on the house, Mr. 
Peter ? ” 

“ What is that to the purpose ? ” exclaimed Peter, 
loftily. “ Did not my great-granduncle, Peter Gold- 
thwaite, who died seventy years ago, and whose name¬ 
sake I am, leave treasure enough to build twenty 
such ? ” 

“ I can’t say but he did, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, 
threading her needle. 

Tabitha well understood that Peter had reference 
to an immense hoard of the precious metals, which 
was said to exist somewhere in the cellar or walls, or 
under the floors, or in some concealed closet, or other 
out-of-the-way nook of the house. This wealth, accord¬ 
ing to tradition, had been accumulated by a former 
Peter Goldtliwaite, whose character seems to have 
borne a remarkable similitude to that of the Peter of 
our story. Like him he was a wild projector, seeking 
to heap up gold by the bushel and the cartload, in¬ 
stead of scraping it together, coin by coin. Like 
Peter the second, too, his projects had almost invaria¬ 
bly failed, and, but for the magnificent success of the 
final one, would have left him with hardly a coat and 
pair of breeches to his gaunt and grizzled person. 
Reports were various as to the nature of his fortunate 
speculation : one intimating that the ancient Peter had 
made the gold by alchemy; another, that he had con¬ 
jured it out of people’s pockets by the black art; and 
a third, still more unaccountable, that the devil had 
given him free access to the old provincial treasury. 
It was affirmed, however, that some secret impediment 
had debarred him from the enjoyment of his riches, 

vol. i. 28 


434 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and that he had a motive for concealing them from 
his heir, or at any rate had died without disclosing the 
place of deposit. The present Peter’s father had faith 
enough in the story to cause the cellar to be dug over. 
Peter himself chose to consider the legend as an indis¬ 
putable truth, and, amid his many troubles, had this 
one consolation that, should all other resources fail, 
he might build up his fortunes by tearing his house 
down. Yet, unless he felt a lurking distrust of the 
golden tale, it is difficult to account for his permitting 
the paternal roof to stand so long, since he had never 
yet seen the moment when his predecessor’s treasure 
would not have found plenty of room in his own strong 
box. But now was the crisis. Should he delay the 
search a little longer, the house would pass from the 
lineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, to re¬ 
main in its burial-place, till the ruin of the aged walls 
should discover it to strangers of a future generation. 

“ Yes ! ” cried Peter Goldthwaite, again, “ to-mor¬ 
row I will set about it.” 

The deeper he looked at the matter the more cer¬ 
tain of success grew Peter. His spirits were natur¬ 
ally so elastic that even now, in the blasted autumn of 
his age, he could often compete with the spring-time 
gayety of other people. Enlivened by his brightening 
prospects, he began to caper about the kitchen like a 
hobgoblin, with the queerest antics of his lean limbs, 
and gesticulations of his starved features. Nay, in 
the exuberance of his feelings, he seized both of Tab- 
itlia’s hands, and danced the old lady across the floor, 
till the oddity of her rheumatic motions set him into 
a roar of laughter, which was echoed back from the 
rooms and chambers, as if Peter Goldthwaite were 
laughing in every one. Finally he bounded upward, 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE. 436 


almost out of sight, into the smoke that clouded the 
roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor 
again, endeavored to resume his customary gravity. 

“To-morrow, at sunrise,” he repeated, taking his 
lamp to retire to bed, “ I ’ll see whether this treasure 
be hid in the wall of the garret.” 

“ And as we ’re out of wood, Mr. Peter,” said Tab- 
itha, puffing and panting with her late gymnastics, 
“ as fast as you tear the house down, I ’ll make a fire 
with the pieces.” 

Gorgeous that night were the dreams of Peter 
Goldthwaite ! At one time he was turning a ponder¬ 
ous key in an iron door not unlike the door of a 
sepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a vault 
heaped up with gold coin, as plentifully as golden corn 
in a granary. There were chased goblets, also, and 
tureens, salvers, dinner dishes, and dish covers of gold, 
or silver gilt, besides chains and other jewels, incalcu¬ 
lably rich, though tarnished with the damps of the 
vault; for, of all the wealth that was irrevocably lost 
to man, whether buried in the earth or sunken in the 
sea, Peter Goldthwaite had found it in this one treas¬ 
ure-place. Anon, he had returned to the old house 
as poor as ever, and was received at the door by the 
gaunt and grizzled figure of a man whom he might 
have mistaken for himself, only that his garments 
were of a much elder fashion. But the house, with¬ 
out losing its former aspect, had been changed into a 
palace of the precious metals. The floors, walls, and 
ceiling were of burnished silver; the doors, the win¬ 
dow frames, the cornices, the balustrades, and the 
steps of the staircase, of pure gold; and silver, with 
gold bottoms, were the chairs, and gold, standing on 
silver legs, the high chests of drawers, and silver the 


436 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


bedsteads, with blankets of woven gold, and sheets of 
silver tissue. The house had evidently been trans¬ 
muted by a single touch; for it retained all the marks 
that Peter remembered, but in gold or silver instead 
of wood ; and the initials of his name, which, when a 
boy, he had cut in the wooden door-post, remained as 
deep in the pillar of gold. A happy man would have 
been Peter Goldthwaite except for a certain ocular 
deception, which, whenever he glanced backwards, 
caused the house to darken from its glittering mag¬ 
nificence into the sordid gloom of yesterday. 

Up, betimes, rose Peter, seized an axe, hammer, 
and saw, which he had placed by his bedside, and 
hied him to the garret. It was but scantily lighted 
up, as yet, by the frosty fragments of a sunbeam, 
which began to glimmer through the almost opaque 
bull’s-eyes of the window. A moralizer might find 
abundant themes for his speculative and impracticable 
wisdom in a garret. There is the limbo of departed 
fashions, aged trifles of a day, and whatever was valu¬ 
able only to one generation of men, and which passed 
to the garret when that generation passed to the grave, 
not for safe keeping, but to be out of the way. Peter 
saw piles of yellow and musty account-books, in parch¬ 
ment covers, wherein creditors, long dead and buried, 
had written the names of dead and buried debtors in 
ink now so faded that their moss-grown tombstones 
were more legible. He found old moth-eaten gar¬ 
ments all in rags and tatters, or Peter would have put 
them on. Here was a naked and rusty sword, not a 
sword of service, but a gentleman’s small French 
rapier, which had never left its scabbard till it lost it. 
Here were canes of twenty different sorts, but no 
gold-headed ones, and shoe-buckles of various pattern 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE ’S TREASURE . 437 


and material, but not silver nor set with precious 
stones. Here was a large box full of shoes, with high 
heels and peaked toes. Here, on a shelf, were a mul¬ 
titude of phials, half-filled with old apothecaries’ stuff, 
which, when the other half had done its business on 
Peter’s ancestors, had been brought hither from the 
death chamber. Here — not to give a longer inven¬ 
tory of articles that will never be put up at auction — 
was the fragment of a full-length looking-glass, which, 
by the dust and dimness of its surface, made the pict¬ 
ure of these old things look older than the reality. 
When Peter, not knowing that there was a mirror 
there, caught the faint traces of his own figure, he 
partly imagined that the former Peter Goldthwaite 
had come back, either to assist or impede his search 
for the hidden wealth. And at that moment a strange 
notion glimmered through his brain that he was the 
identical Peter who had concealed the gold, and ought 
to know whereabout it lay. This, however, he had 
unacountably forgotten. 

“Well, Mr. Peter! ” cried Tabitha, on the garret 
stairs. “ Have you torn the house down enough to 
heat the teakettle ? ” 

“Not yet, old Tabby,” answered Peter; “but that’s 
soon done — as you shall see.” 

With the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, 
and laid about him so vigorously that the dust flew, 
the boards crashed, and, in a twinkling, the old woman 
had an apron full of broken rubbish. 

“We shall get our winter’s wood cheap,” quoth 
Tabitha. 

The good work being thus commenced, Peter beat 
down all before him, smiting and hewing at the joists 
and timbers, unclinching spike-nails, ripping and tear- 



438 TWICE-TOLD TALES . 

ing away boards, with a tremendous racket, from 
morning till night. He took care, however, to leave 
the outside shell of the house untouched, so that the 
neighbors might not suspect what was going on. 

Never, in any of his vagaries, though each had 
made him happy while it lasted, had Peter been hap¬ 
pier than now. Perhaps, after all, there was some¬ 
thing in Peter Goldthwaite’s turn of mind, which 
brought him an inward recompense for all the exter¬ 
nal evil that it caused. If he were poor, ill-clad, even 
hungry, and exposed, as it were, to be utterly annihi¬ 
lated by a precipice of impending ruin, yet only his 
body remained in these miserable circumstances, while 
his aspiring soul enjoyed the sunshine of a bright fu¬ 
turity. It was his nature to be always young, and 
the tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. Gray 
hairs were nothing, no, nor wrinkles, nor infirmity; 
he might look old, indeed, and be somewhat disagree¬ 
ably connected with a gaunt old figure, much the 
worse for wear; but the true, the essential Peter was 
a young man of high hopes, just entering on the world. 
At the kindling of each new fire, his burnt-out youth 
rose afresh from the old embers and ashes. It rose 
exulting now. Having lived thus long — not too long, 
but just to the right age — a susceptible bachelor, with 
warm and tender dreams, he resolved, so soon as the 
hidden gold should flash to light, to go a-wooing, and 
win the love of the fairest maid in town. What heart 
could resist him ? Happy Peter Goldthwaite ! 

Every evening — as Peter had long absented him¬ 
self from his former lounging-places, at insurance offi¬ 
ces, news-rooms, and bookstores, and as the honor of 
his company was seldom requested in private circles 
— he and Tabitlia used to sit down sociably by the 


G 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 439 


kitchen hearth. This was always heaped plentifully 
with the rubbish of his day’s labor. As the founda¬ 
tion of the fire, there would be a gooclly-sized backlog 
of red oak, which, after being sheltered from rain or 
damp above a century, still hissed with the heat, and 
distilled streams of water from each end, as if the tree 
had been cut down within a week or two. Next these 
were large sticks, sound, black, and heavy, which had 
lost the principle of decay, and were indestructible ex¬ 
cept by fire, wherein they glowed like red-hot bars of 
iron. On this solid basis, Tabitha would rear a lighter 
structure, composed of the splinters of door panels, 
ornamented mouldings, and such quick combustibles, 
which caught like straw, and threw a brilliant blaze 
high up the spacious flue, making its sooty sides visi¬ 
ble almost to the chimney-top. Meantime, the gleam 
of the old kitchen would be chased out of the cob 
webbed corners, and away from the dusky cross-beams 
overhead, and driven nobody could tell whither, while 
Peter smiled like a gladsome man, and Tabitha seemed 
a picture of comfortable age. All this, of course, was 
but an emblem of the bright fortune which the de¬ 
struction of the house would shed upon its occupants. 

While the dry pine was flaming and crackling, like 
an irregular discharge of fairy musketry, Peter sat 
looking and listening, in a pleasant state of excite¬ 
ment. But, when the brief blaze and uproar were suc¬ 
ceeded by the dark-red glow, the substantial heat, and 
the deep singing sound, which were to last through¬ 
out the evening, his humor became talkative. One 
night, the hundredth time, he teased Tabitha to tell 
him something new about his great-granduncle. 

u You have been sitting in that chimney-corner 
fifty-five years, old Tabby, and must have heard many 


440 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


a tradition about him,” said Peter. “ Did not you 
tell me that, when you first came to the house, there 
was an old woman sitting where you sit now, who had 
been housekeeper to the famous Peter Goldthwaite ? ” 
“ So there was, Mr. Peter,” answered Tabitha, “ and 
she was near about a hundred years old. She used to 
say that she and old Peter Goldthwaite had often spent 
a sociable evening by the kitchen fire — pretty much 
as you and I are doing now, Mr. Peter.” 

“ The old fellow must have resembled me in more 
points than one,” said Peter, complacently, “or he 
never would have grown so rich. But, methinks, he 
might have invested the money better than he did — 
no interest! — nothing but good security! — and the 
house to be torn down to come at it! What made 
him hide it so snug, Tabby ? ” 

“Because he could not spend it,” said Tabitha; 
“for as often as he went to unlock the chest, the 
Old Scratch came behind and caught his arm. The 
money, they say, was paid Peter out of his purse; and 
he wanted Peter to give him a deed of this house and 
land, which Peter swore he would not do.” 

“Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner,” 
remarked Peter. “ But this is all nonsense, Tabby ! 
I don’t believe the story.” 

“ Well, it may not be just the truth,” said Tabitha; 
“for some folks say that Peter did make over the 
house to the Old Scratch, and that’s the reason it 
has always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. 
And as soon as Peter had given him the deed, the 
chest flew open, and Peter caught up a handful of the 
gold. But, lo and behold ! — there was nothing in his 
fist but a parcel of old rags.” 

“ Hold your tongue, you silly old Tabby ! ” cried 



PETER GOLDTHWAITE ’S TREASURE. 441 

/ 

Peter in great wrath. “ They were as good golden 
guineas as ever bore the effigies of the king of Eng¬ 
land. It seems as if I could recollect the whole cir¬ 
cumstance, and how I, or old Peter, or whoever it was, 
thrust in my hand, or his hand, and drew it out all of 
a blaze with gold. Old rags, indeed! ” 

But it was not an old woman’s legend that would 
discourage Peter Goldthwaite. All night long he 
slept among pleasant dreams, and awoke at daylight 
with a joyous throb of the heart, which few are for¬ 
tunate enough to feel beyond their boyhood. Day 
after day he labored hard without wasting a moment, 
except at meal times, when Tabitha summoned him to 
the pork and cabbage, or such other sustenance as she 
had picked up, or Providence had sent them. Being a 
truly pious man, Peter never failed to ask a blessing ; 
if the food were none of the best, then so much the 
more earnestly, as it was more needed; — nor to re¬ 
turn thanks, if the dinner had been scanty, yet for the 
good appetite, which was better than a sick stomach 
at a feast. Then did he hurry back to his toil, and, in 
a moment, was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from 
the old walls, though sufficiently perceptible to the ear 
by the clatter which he raised in the midst of it. How 
enviable is the consciousness of being usefully em¬ 
ployed! Nothing troubled Peter; or nothing but 
those phantoms of the mind which seem like vague 
recollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. 
He often paused, with his axe uplifted in the air, and 
said to himself, — “ Peter Goldthwaite, did you never 
strike this blow before? ” — or, “ Peter, what need of 
tearing the whole house down ? Think a little while, 
and you will remember where the gold is hidden.” 
pays and weeks passed on, however, without any re- 


442 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


markable discovery. Sometimes, indeed, a lean, gray 
rat peeped forth at the lean, gray man, wondering 
what devil had got into the old house, which had al¬ 
ways been so peaceable till now. And, occasionally, 
Peter sympathized with the sorrows of a female mouse, 
who had brought five or six pretty, little, soft and 
delicate young ones into the world just in time to 
see them crushed by its ruin. But, as yet, no treas¬ 
ure ! 

By this time, Peter, being as determined as Fate 
and as diligent as Time, had made an end with the 
uppermost regions, and got down to the second story, 
where he was busy in one of the front chambers. It 
had formerly been the state bed-chamber, and was 
honored by tradition as the sleeping apartment of 
Governor Dudley, and many other eminent guests. 
The furniture was gone. There were remnants of 
faded and tattered paper-hangings, but larger spaces 
of bare wall ornamented with charcoal sketches, chiefly 
of people’s heads in profile. These being specimens of 
Peter’s youthful genius, it went more to his heart to 
obliterate them than if they had been pictures on a 
church wall by Michael Angelo. One sketch, how¬ 
ever, and that the best one, affected him differently. 
It represented a ragged man, partly supporting him¬ 
self on a spade, and bending his lean body over a hole 
in the earth, with one hand extended to grasp some¬ 
thing that he had found. But close behind him, with 
a fiendish laugh on his features, appeared a figure with 
horns, a tufted tail, and a cloven hoof. 

“ Avaunt, Satan ! ” cried Peter. “ The man shall 
have his gold! ” 

Uplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such 
a blow on the head as not only demolished him, but 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 443 


fche treasure-seeker also, and caused the whole scene to 
vanish like magic. Moreover, his axe broke quite 
through the plaster and laths, and discovered a cavity, 
“ Mercy on us, Mr. Peter, are you quarrelling with 
the Old Scratch?” said Tabitha, who was seeking 
some fuel to put under the pot. 

Without answering the old woman, Peter broke 
down a further space of the wall, and laid open a 
small closet or cupboard, on one side of the fireplace, 
about breast high from the ground. It contained 
nothing but a brass lamp, covered with verdigris, and 
a dusty piece of parchment. While Peter inspected 
the latter, Tabitha seized the lamp, and began to rub 
it with her apron. 

“ There is no use in rubbing it, Tabitha,” said Peter. 
“ It is not Aladdin’s lamp, though I take it to be a 
token of as much luck. Look here, Tabby! ” 

Tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her 
nose, which was saddled with a pair of iron-bound spec¬ 
tacles. But no sooner had she began to puzzle over it 
than she burst into a chuckling laugh, holding both 
her hands against her sides. 

“You can’t make a fool of the old woman ! ” cried 
she. “ This is your own handwriting, Mr. Peter! the 
same as in the letter you sent me from Mexico.” 

“ There is certainly a considerable resemblance,” 
said Peter, again examining the parchment. “ But 
you know yourself, Tabby, that this closet must have 
been plastered up before you came to the house, or I 
came into the world. No, this is old Peter Gold- 
thwaite’s writing; these columns of pounds, shillings, 
and pence are his figures, denoting the amount of the 
treasure; and this at the bottom is, doubtless, a refer¬ 
ence to the place of concealment. But the ink has 


444 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


either faded or peeled off, so that it is absolutely illeg 
ible. What a pity! ” 

“ Well, this lamp is as good as new. That’s some 
comfort,” said Tabitha. 

“ A lamp ! ” thought Peter. “ That indicates light 
on my researches.” 

For the present, Peter felt more inclined to ponder 
on this discovery than to resume Iris labors. After 
Tabitha had gone down stairs, he stood poring over 
the parchment, at one of the front windows, which 
was so obscured with dust that the sun could barely 
throw an uncertain shadow of the casement across the 
floor. Peter forced it open, and looked out upon the 
great street of the town, while the sun looked in at his 
old house. The air, though mild, and even warm, 
thrilled Peter as with a dash of water. 

It was the first day of the January thaw. The snow 
lay deep upon the house-tops, but was rapidly dissolv¬ 
ing into millions of water-drops, which sparkled down¬ 
wards through the sunshine, with the noise of a sum¬ 
mer shower beneath the eaves. Along the street, the 
trodden snow was as hard and solid as a pavement of 
white marble, and had not yet grown moist in the 
spring-like temperature. But when Peter thrust forth 
his head, he saw that the inhabitants, if not the town, 
were already thawed out by this warm day, after two 
or three weeks of winter weather. It gladdened him 
— a gladness with a sigh breathing through it — to 
see the stream of ladies, gliding along the slippery 
sidewalks, with their red cheeks set off by quilted 
hoods, boas, and sable capes, like roses amidst a new 
kind of foliage. The sleigh-bells jingled to and fro 
continually: sometimes announcing the arrival of a 
sleigh from Vermont, laden with the frozen bodies of 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE'S TREASURE. 445 


porkers, or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two ; some¬ 
times of a regular market-man, with chickens, geese, 
and turkeys, comprising the whole colony of a barn 
yard; and sometimes of a farmer and his dame, who 
had come to town partly for the ride, partly to go 
a-shopping, and partly for the sale of some eggs and 
butter. This couple rode in an old-fashioned square 
sleigh, which had served them twenty winters, and 
stood twenty summers in the sun beside their door. 
Now, a gentleman and lady skimmed the snow in an 
elegant car, shaped somewhat like a cockle-shell. 
Now, a stage-sleigh, with its cloth curtains thrust aside 
to admit the sun, dashed rapidly down the street, 
whirling in and out among the vehicles that obstructed 
its passage. Now came, round a corner, the similitude 
of Noah’s ark on runners, being an immense open 
sleigh with seats for fifty people, and drawn by a 
dozen horses. This spacious receptacle was populous 
with merry maids and merry bachelors, merry girls 
and boys, and merry old folks, all alive with fun, and 
grinning to the full width of their mouths. They kept 
up a buzz of babbling voices and low laughter, and 
sometimes burst into a deep, joyous shout, which the 
spectators answered with three cheers, while a gang 
of roguish boys let drive their snowballs right among 
the pleasure party. The sleigh passed on, and, when 
concealed by a bend of the street, was still audible by 
a distant cry of merriment. 

Never had Peter beheld a livelier scene than was 
constituted by all these accessories : the bright sun, 
the flashing water-drops, the gleaming snow, the cheer¬ 
ful multitude, the variety of rapid vehicles, and the 
jingle jangle of merry bells which made the heart 
lance to their music. Nothing dismal was to be seen, 


446 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


except that peaked piece of antiquity, Peter Gold- 
thwaite’s house, which might well look sad externally, 
since such a terrible consumption was preying on its 
insides. And Peter’s gaunt figure, half visible in the 
projecting second story, was worthy of his house. 

“ Peter! How goes it, friend Peter ? ” cried a voice 
across the street, as Peter was drawing in his head. 
“ Look out here, Peter ! ” 

Peter looked, and saw his old partner, Mr. John 
Brown, on the opposite sidewalk, portly and comforta¬ 
ble, with his furred cloak thrown open, disclosing a 
handsome surtout beneath. His voice had directed 
the attention of the whole town to Peter Goldthwaite’s 
window, and to the dusty scarecrow which appeared 
at it. 

“ I say, Peter,” cried Mr. Brown again, “ what the 
devil are you about there, that I hear such a racket 
whenever I pass by ? You are repairing the old 
house, I suppose, — making a new one of it, — eh ? ” 

“ Too late for that, I am afraid, Mr. Brown,” re¬ 
plied Peter. “ If I make it new, it will be new in¬ 
side and out, from the cellar upwards.” 

“ Had not you better let me take the job ? ” said 
Mr. Brown, significantly. 

“ Not yet! ” answered Peter, hastily shutting the 
window; for, ever since he had been in search of the 
treasure, he hated to have people stare at him. 

As he drew back, ashamed of his outward poverty, 
yet proud of the secret wealth within his grasp, a 
haughty smile shone out on Peter’s visage, with pre¬ 
cisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid 
chamber. He endeavored to assume such a mien as 
his ancestor had probably worn, when he gloried in 
the building of a strong house for a home to many 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE ’S TREASURE. 447 


generations of his posterity. But the chamber was 
very dark to his snow-dazzled eyes, and very dismal 
too, in contrast with the living scene that he had just 
looked upon. His brief glimpse into the street had 
given him a forcible impression of the manner in 
which the world kept itself cheerful and prosperous, 
by social pleasures and an intercourse of business, 
while he, in seclusion, was pursuing an object that 
might possibly be a phantasm, by a method which 
most people would call madness. It is one great ad¬ 
vantage of a gregarious mode of life that each person 
rectifies his mind by other minds, and squares his con¬ 
duct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost 
in eccentricity. Peter Goldthwaite had exposed him¬ 
self to this influence by merely looking out of the 
window. For a while, he doubted whether there were 
any hidden chest of gold, and, in that case, whether 
he was so exceedingly wise to tear the house down, 
only to be convinced of its non-existence. 

But this was momentary. Peter, the Destroyer, 
resumed the task which fate had assigned him, nor 
faltered again till it was accomplished. In the course 
of his search, he met with many things that are usually 
found in the ruins of an old house, and also with some 
that are not. What seemed most to the purpose was 
a rusty key, which had been thrust into a chink of the 
wall, with a wooden label appended to the handle, 
bearing the initials, P. G. Another singular discovery 
was that of a bottle of wine, walled up in an old oven. 
A tradition ran in the family, that Peter’s grand¬ 
father, a jovial officer in the old French War, had set 
aside many dozens of the precious liquor for the ben¬ 
efit of topers then unborn. Peter needed no cordial to 
sustain his hopes, and therefore kept the wine to glad* 


448 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


den his success. Many halfpence did he pick up, that 
had been lost through the cracks of the floor, and 
some few Spanish coins, and the half of a broken six¬ 
pence, which had doubtless been a love token. There 
was likewise a silver coronation medal of George the 
Third. But old Peter Goldthwaite’s strong box fled 
from one dark corner to another, or otherwise eluded 
the second Peter’s clutches, till, should he seek much 
farther, he must burrow into the earth. 

We will not follow him in his triumphant progress, 
step by step. Suffice it that Peter worked like a 
steam-engine, and finished, in that one winter, the job 
which all the former inhabitants of the house, with 
time and the elements to aid them, had only half done 
in a century. Except the kitchen, every room and 
chamber was now gutted. The house was nothing but 
a shell, —the apparition of a house, —as unreal as the 
painted edifices of a theatre. It was like the perfect 
rind of a great cheese, in which a mouse had dwelt 
and nibbled till it was a cheese no more. And Peter 
was the mouse. 

What Peter had torn down, Tabitha had burned 
up; for she wisely considered that, without a house, 
they should need no wood to warm it; and therefore 
economy was nonsense. Thus the whole house might 
be said to have dissolved in smoke, and flown up 
among the clouds, through the great black flue of the 
kitchen chimney. It was an admirable parallel to 
the feat of the man who jumped down his own throat. 

On the night between the last day of winter and 
the first of spring, every chink and cranny had been 
ransacked, except within the precincts of the kitchen. 
This fated evening was an ugly one. A snow-storm 
had set in some hours before, and was still driven 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE ’S TREASURE. 449 


and tossed about the atmosphere by a real hurricane, 
which fought against the house as if the prince of the 
air, in person, were putting the final stroke to Peter’s 
labors. The framework being so much weakened, 
and the inward props removed, it would have been no 
marvel if, in some stronger wrestle of the blast, the 
rotten walls of the edifice, and all the peaked roofs, 
had come crushing down upon the owner’s head. He, 
however, was careless of the peril, but as wild and rest¬ 
less as the night itself, or as the flame that quivered 
up the chimney at each roar of the tempestuous wind. 

“ The wine, Tabitha! ” he cried. “ My grandfather’s 
rich old wine ! We will drink it now! ” 

Tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in 
the chimney-corner, and placed the bottle before Pe^ 
ter, close beside the old brass lamp, which had like¬ 
wise been the prize of his researches. Peter held it 
before his eyes, and, looking through the liquid me¬ 
dium, beheld the kitchen illuminated with a golden 
glory, which also enveloped Tabitha and gilded her 
silver hair, and converted her mean garments into 
robes of queenly splendor. It reminded him of his 
golden dream. 

“Mr. Peter,” remarked Tabitha, “must the wine 
be drunk before the money is found ? ” 

“ The money is found! ” exclaimed Peter, with a 
sort of fierceness. “ The chest is within my reach. I 
will not sleep, till I have turned this key in the rusty 
lock. But, first of all, let us drink! ” 

There being no corkscrew in the house, he smote 
the neck of the bottle with old Peter Goldthwaite’s 
rusty key, and decapitated the sealed cork at a single 
blow. He then filled two little china teacups, which 

Tabitha had brought from the cupboard. So clear 

29 


VOL. I. 


450 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and brilliant was this aged wine that it shone within 
the cups, and rendered the sprig of scarlet flowers, at 
the bottom of each, more distinctly visible than when 
there had been no wine there. Its rich and delicate 
perfume wasted itself round the kitchen. 

“ Drink, Tabitha! ” cried Peter. “ Blessings on the 
honest old fellow who set aside this good liquor for 
you and me! And here’s to Peter Goldthwaite’s 
memory! ” 

“ And good cause have we to remember him,” quoth 
Tabitha, as she drank. 

How many years, and through what changes of 
fortune and various calamity, had that bottle hoarded 
up its effervescent joy, to be quaffed at last by two 
such boon companions! A portion of the happiness 
of the former age had been kept for them, and was 
now set free, in a crowd of rejoicing visions, to sport 
amid the storm and desolation of the present time. 
Until they have finished the bottle, we must turn our 
eyes elsewhere. 

It so chanced that, on this stormy night, Mr. John 
Brown found himself ill at ease in his wire-cushioned 
arm-chair, by the glowing grate of anthracite which 
heated his handsome parlor. He was naturally a good 
sort of a man, and kind and pitiful whenever the mis¬ 
fortunes of others happened to reach his heart through 
the padded vest of his own prosperity. This evening 
he had thought much about his old partner, Peter 
Goldthwaite, his strange vagaries, and continual ill 
luck, the poverty of his dwelling, at Mr. Brown’s last 
visit, and Peter’s crazed and haggard aspect when he 
had talked with him at the window. 

“ Poor fellow! ” thought Mr. John Brown. “ Poor, 
crackbrained Peter Goldthwaite! For old acquaint 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE *S TREASURE. 451 


ance’ sake, I ought to have taken care that he was 
comfortable this rough winter.” 

These feelings grew so powerful that, in spite of 
the inclement weather, he resolved to visit Peter 
Goldthwaite immediately. The strength of the im¬ 
pulse was really singular. Every shriek of the blast 
seemed a summons, or would have seemed so, had Mr. 
Brown been accustomed to hear the echoes of his own 
fancy in the wind. Much amazed at such active be¬ 
nevolence, he huddled himself in his cloak, muffled his 
throat and ears in comforters and handkerchiefs, and, 
thus fortified, bade defiance to the tempest. But the 
powers of the air had rather the best of the battle. 
Mr. Brown was just weathering the corner, by Peter 
Goldthwaite’s house, when the hurricane caught him 
off his feet, tossed him face downward into a snow 
bank, and proceeded to bury his protuberant part be¬ 
neath fresh drifts. There seemed little hope of his 
reappearance earlier than the next thaw. At the 
same moment his hat was snatched away, and whirled 
aloft into some far distant region, whence no tidings 
have as yet returned. 

Nevertheless Mr. Brown contrived to burrow a pas¬ 
sage through the snow-drift, and, with his bare head 
bent against the storm, floundered onward to Peter’s 
door. There was such a creaking and groaning and 
rattling, and such an ominous shaking throughout the 
crazy edifice, that the loudest rap would have been 
inaudible to those within. He therefore entered, with¬ 
out ceremony, and groped his way to the kitchen. 

His intrusion, even there, was unnoticed. Peter and 
Tabitha stood with their backs to the door, stooping 
over a large chest, which, apparently, they had just 
dragged from a cavity, or concealed closet, on the left 


452 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


side of the chimney. By the lamp in the old woman’s 
hand, Mr. Brown saw that the chest was barred and 
clamped with iron, strengthened with iron plates and 
studded with iron nails, so as to be a fit receptacle in 
which the wealth of one century might be hoarded up 
for the wants of another. Peter Goldthwaite was in¬ 
serting a key into the lock. 

“ O Tabitha! ” cried he, with tremulous rapture, 
“ how shall I endure the effulgence ? The gold! — 
the bright, bright gold! Methinks I can remember 
my last glance at it, just as the iron-plated lid fell 
down. And ever since, being seventy years, it has 
been blazing in secret, and gathering its splendor 
against this glorious moment! It will flash upon us 
like the noonday sun ! ” 

“ Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter! ” said Tabitha, 
with somewhat less patience than usual. “ But, for 
mercy’s sake, do turn the key! ” 

And, with a strong effort of both hands, Peter did 
force the rusty key through the intricacies of the rusty 
lock. Mr. Brown, in the mean time, had drawn near, 
and thrust his eager visage between those of the other 
two, at the instant that Peter threw up the lid. No 
sudden blaze illuminated the kitchen. 

“ What’s here ? exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her 
spectacles, and holding the lamp over the open chest. 
“ Old Peter Goldthwaite’s hoard of old rags.” 

“ Pretty much so, Tabby,” said Mr. Brown, lifting 
a handful of the treasure. 

Oh, what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had 
Peter Goldthwaite raised, to scare himself out of his 
scanty wits withal! Here was the semblance of an 
incalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town, 
and build every street anew, but which, vast as it was, 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE . 453 


no sane man would have given a solid sixpence for. 
What then, in sober earnest, were the delusive treas¬ 
ures of the chest ? Why, here were old provincial 
bills of credit, and treasury notes, and bills of land, 
banks, and all other bubbles of the sort, from the first 
issue, above a century and a half ago, down nearly 
to the Revolution. Bills of a thousand pounds were 
intermixed with parchment pennies, and worth no more 
than they. 

“And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite’s treas¬ 
ure!” said John Brown. “Your namesake, Peter, 
was something like yourself ; and, when the provincial 
currency had depreciated fifty or seventy-five per cent., 
he bought it up in expectation of a rise. I have heard 
my grandfather say that old Peter gave his father a 
mortgage of this very house and land, to raise cash for 
his silly project. But the currency kept sinking, till 
nobody would take it as a gift; and there was old 
Peter Goldtliwaite, like Peter the second, with thou¬ 
sands in his strong box and hardly a coat to his back. 
He went mad upon the strength of it. But, never 
mind, Peter! It is just the sort of capital for build¬ 
ing castles in the air.” 

“ The house will be down about our ears! ” cried 
Tabitha, as the wind shook it with increasing violence. 

“ Let it fall! ” said Peter, folding his arms, as he 
seated himself upon the chest. 

“No, no, my old friend Peter,” said John Brown. 
“ I have house room for you and Tabby, and a safe 
vault for the chest of treasure. To-morrow we will 
try to come to an agreement about the sale of this 
old house. Real estate is well up, and I could afford 
you a pretty handsome price.” 

“ And I,” observed Peter Goldtliwaite, with reviv- 


454 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


ing spirits, “have a plan for laying out the cash to 
great advantage.” 

“ Why, as to that,” muttered John Brown to him¬ 
self, “ we must apply to the next court for a guardian 
to take care of the solid cash; and if Peter insists 
upon speculating, he may do it, to his heart’s content, 
with old Peter Goldthwaite’s Treasure.” 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 


Passing a summer, several years since, at Edgar- 
town, on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, I became 
acquainted with a certain carver of tombstones, who 
had travelled and voyaged thither from the interior of 
Massachusetts, in search of professional employment. 
The speculation had turned out so successful that my 
friend expected to transmute slate and marble into 
silver and gold, to the amount of at least a thousand 
dollars, during the few months of his sojourn at Nan¬ 
tucket and the Vineyard. The secluded life, and the 
simple and primitive spirit which still characterizes 
the inhabitants of those islands, especially of Martha’s 
Vineyard, insure their dead friends a longer and dearer 
remembrance than the daily novelty and revolving bus¬ 
tle of the world can elsewhere afford to beings of the 
past. Yet while every family is anxious to erect a me¬ 
morial to its departed members, the untainted breath 
of ocean bestows such health and length of days upon 
the people of the isles, as would cause a melancholy 
dearth of business to a resident artist in that line. 
His own monument, recording his death by starva¬ 
tion, would probably be an early specimen of his skill. 
Gravestones, therefore, have generally been an article 
of imported merchandise. 

In my walks through the burial-ground of Edgar- 
town — where the dead have lain so long that the soil, 
once enriched by their decay, has returned to its orig¬ 
inal barrenness — in that ancient burial-ground I no 


456 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


ticed much variety of monumental sculpture. The 
elder stones, dated a century back or more, have bor¬ 
ders elaborately carved with flowers, and are adorned 
with a multiplicity of death’s heads, cross-bones, scythes, 
hour-glasses, and other lugubrious emblems of mortal¬ 
ity, with here and there a winged cherub to direct the 
mourner’s spirit upward. These productions of Gothic 
taste must have been quite beyond the colonial skill 
of the day, and were probably carved in London, and 
brought across the ocean to commemorate the defunct 
worthies of this lonely isle. The more recent monu¬ 
ments are mere slabs of slate, in the ordinary style, 
without any superfluous flourishes to set off the bald 
inscriptions. But others — and those far the most im¬ 
pressive both to my taste and feelings — were roughly 
hewn from the gray rocks of the island, evidently by 
the mi skilled hands of surviving friends and relatives. 
On some there were merely the initials of a name; 
some were inscribed with misspelt prose or rhyme, in 
deep letters, which the moss and wintry rain of many 
years had not been able to obliterate. These, these 
were graves where loved ones slept! It is an old 
theme of satire, the falsehood and vanity of monu¬ 
mental eulogies ; but when affection and sorrow grave 
the letters with their own painful labor, then we may 
be sure that they copy from the record on their hearts. 

My acquaintance, the sculptor, — he may share that 
title with Greenougli, since the dauber of signs is a 
painter as well as Raphael, — had found a ready mar¬ 
ket for all his blank slabs of marble, and full occupa¬ 
tion in lettering and ornamenting them. He was an 
elderly man, a descendant of the old Puritan family 
of Wigglesworth, with a certain simplicity and single¬ 
ness both of heart and mind, which, methinks, is more 


rn 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 


457 


rarely found among us Yankees than in any other 
community of people. In spite of his gray head and 
wrinkled brow, he was quite like a child in all matters 
save what had some referenoe to his own business; he 
seemed, unless my fancy misled me, to view mankind 
in no other relation than as people in want of tomb¬ 
stones ; and his literary attainments evidently compre¬ 
hended very little, either of prose or poetry, which 
had not, at one time or other, been inscribed on 
slate or marble. His sole task and office among the 
immortal pilgrims of the tomb — the duty for which 
Providence had sent the old man into the world as it 
were with a chisel in his hand — was to label the dead 
bodies, lest their names should be forgotten at the 
resurrection. Yet he had not failed, within a narrow 
scope, to gather a few sprigs of earthly, and more than 
earthly, wisdom, — the harvest of many a grave. 

And lugubrious as his calling might appear, he was 
as cheerful an old soul as health and integrity and 
lack of care could make him, and used to set to work 
upon one sorrowful inscription or another with that 
sort of spirit which impels a man to sing at his labor. 
On the whole I found Mr. Wigglesworth an entertain¬ 
ing, and often instructive, if not an interesting, char¬ 
acter ; and partly for the charm of his society, and 
still more because his work has an invariable attrac¬ 
tion for “ man that is born of woman,” I was accus¬ 
tomed to spend some hours a day at his workshop. 
The quaintness of his remarks, and their not infre¬ 
quent truth — a truth condensed and pointed by the 
limited sphere of his view — gave a raciness to his 
talk, which mere worldliness and general cultivation 
would at once have destroyed. 

Sometimes we would discuss the respective merits 


458 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


of the various qualities of marble, numerous slabs of 
which were resting against the walls of the shop; or 
sometimes an hour or two would pass quietly, without 
a word on either side, while I watched how neatly his 
chisel struck out letter after letter of the names of the 
Nortons, the Mayhews, the Luces, the Daggets, and 
other immemorial families of the Vineyard. Often, 
with an artist’s pride, the good old sculptor would 
speak of favorite productions of his skill which were 
scattered throughout the village graveyards of New 
England. But my chief and most instructive amuse¬ 
ment was to witness his interviews with his customers, 
who held interminable consultations about the form 
and fashion of the desired monuments, the buried ex¬ 
cellence to be commemorated, the anguish to be ex¬ 
pressed, and finally, the lowest price in dollars and 
cents for which a marble transcript of their feelings 
might be obtained. Really, my mind received many 
fresh ideas which, perhaps, may remain in it even 
longer than Mr. Wigglesworth’s hardest marble will 
retain the deepest strokes of his chisel. 

An elderly lady came to bespeak a monument for 
her first love who had been killed by a whale in the 
Pacific Ocean no less than forty years before. It was 
singular that so strong an impression of early feeling 
should have survived through the changes of her sub¬ 
sequent life, in the course of which she had been a 
wife and a mother, and, so far as I could judge, a com¬ 
fortable and happy woman. Reflecting within myself, 
it appeared to me that this lifelong sorrow — as, in all 
good faith, she deemed it — was one of the most for¬ 
tunate circumstances of her history. It had given an 
ideality to her mind; it had kept her purer and less 
earthly than she would otherwise have been, by draw 


CH1PPINGS WITH A CHISEL . 


459 


ing a portion of her sympathies apart from earth. 
Amid the throng of enjoyments and the pressure of 
worldly care, and all the warm materialism of this life, 
she had communed with a vision, and had been the 
better for such intercourse. Faithful to the husband 
of her maturity, and loving him with a far more real 
affection than she ever could have felt for this dream 
of her girlhood, there had still been an imaginative 
faith to the ocean-buried, so that an ordinary character 
had thus been elevated and refined. Her sighs had 
been the breath of heaven to her soul. The good 
lady earnestly desired that the proposed monument 
should be ornamented with a carved border of marine 
plants, intertwined with twisted sea-shells, such as 
were probably waving over her lover’s skeleton, or 
strewn around it in the far depths of the Pacific. 
But Mr. Wiggleswortli’s chisel being inadequate to 
the task, she was forced to content herself with a rose 
hanging its head from a broken stem. After her de¬ 
parture, I remarked that the symbol was none of the 
most apt. 

“ And yet,” said my friend the sculptor, embodying 
in this image the thoughts that had been passing 
through my own mind, “ that broken rose has shed its 
sweet smell through forty years of the good woman’s 
life.” 

It was seldom that I could find such pleasant food 
for contemplation as in the above instance. None of 
the applicants, I think, affected me more disagreeably 
than an old man who came, with his fourth wife hang¬ 
ing on his arm, to bespeak gravestones for the three 
former occupants of his marriage-bed. I watched 
with some anxiety to see whether his remembrance of 
either were more affectionate than of the other two, 


460 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


but could discover no symptom of the kind. The 
three monuments were all to he of the same material 
and form, and each decorated, in bass-relief, with two 
weeping willows, one of these sympathetic trees bend¬ 
ing over its fellow, which was to be broken in the midst 
and rest upon a sepulchral urn. This, indeed, was Mr. 
Wigglesworth’s standing emblem of conjugal bereave¬ 
ment. I shuddered at the gray polygamist who had 
so utterly lost the holy sense of individuality in wed¬ 
lock, that methought he was fain to reckon upon his 
fingers how many women, who had once slept by his 
side, were now sleeping in their graves. There was 
even — if I wrong him it is no great matter — a glance 
sidelong at his living spouse, as if he were inclined to 
drive a thriftier bargain by bespeaking four grave¬ 
stones in a lot. I was better pleased with a rough old 
whaling captain, who gave directions for a broad mar¬ 
ble slab, divided into two compartments, one of which 
was to contain an epitaph on his deceased wife, and 
the other to be left vacant, till death should engrave 
his own name there. As is frequently the case among 
the whalers of Martha’s Vineyard, so much of this 
storm-beaten widower’s life had been tossed away on 
distant seas, that out of twenty years of matrimony 
he had spent scarce three, and those at scattered in¬ 
tervals, beneath his own roof. Thus the wife of his 
youth, though she died in his and her declining age, 
retained the bridal dew-drops fresh around her memory. 

My observations gave me the idea, and Mr. Wiggles- 
worth confirmed it, that husbands were more faithful 
in setting up memorials to their dead wives than wid¬ 
ows to their dead husbands. I was not ill-natured 
enough to fancy that women, less than men, feel so 
sure of their constancy as to be willing to give a 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 


461 


pledge of it in marble. It is more probably the fact 
that while men are able to reflect upon their lost 
companions as remembrances apart from themselves, 
women, on the other hand, are conscious that a por¬ 
tion of their being has gone with the departed whith¬ 
ersoever he has gone. Soul clings to soul; the living 
dust has a sympathy with the dust of the grave ; and, 
by the very strength of that sympathy, the wife of the 
dead shrinks the more sensitively from reminding the 
world of its existence. The link is already strong 
enough; it needs no visible symbol. And though a 
shadow walks ever by her side, and the touch of a chill 
hand is on her bosom, yet life, and perchance its nat¬ 
ural yearnings, may still be warm within her, and in¬ 
spire her with new hopes of happiness. Then would 
she mark out the grave, the scent of which would be 
perceptible on the pillow of the second bridal? No — 
but rather level its green mound with the surrounding 
earth, as if, when she dug up again her buried heart, 
the spot had ceased to be a grave. Yet, in spite of 
these sentimentalities, I was prodigiously amused by 
an incident, of which I had not the good fortune to be 
a witness, but which Mr. Wigglesworth related with 
considerable humor. A gentlewoman of the town, 
receiving news of her husband’s loss at sea, had be¬ 
spoken a handsome slab of marble, and came daily to 
watch the progress of my friend’s chisel. One after¬ 
noon, when the good lady and the sculptor were in the 
very midst of the epitaph, which the departed spirit 
might have been greatly comforted to read, who 
should walk into the workshop but the deceased him¬ 
self, in substance as well as spirit! He had been 
picked up at sea, and stood in no present need of 
tombstone or epitaph. 


462 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


u Anti how,” inquired I, “ did his wife bear the 
shock of joyful surprise ? ” 

“ Why,” said the old man, deepening the grin of a 
death’s-head, on which his chisel was just then em¬ 
ployed, “ I really felt for the poor woman; it was one 
of my best pieces of marble — and to be thrown away 
on a living man ! ” 

A comely woman, with a pretty rosebud of a 
daughter, came to select a gravestone for a twin 
daughter, who had died a month before. I was im¬ 
pressed with the different nature of their feelings for 
the dead ; the mother was calm and wofidly resigned, 
fully conscious of her loss, as of a treasure which she 
had not always possessed, and, therefore, had been 
aware that it might be taken from her; but the daugh¬ 
ter evidently had no real knowledge of what death’s 
doings were. Her thoughts knew, but not her heart. 
It seemed to me, that by the print and pressure which 
the dead sister had left upon the survivor’s spirit, her 
feelings were almost the same as if she still stood side 
by side and arm in arm with the departed, looking at 
the slabs of marble ; and once or twice she glanced 
around with a sunny smile, which, as its sister smile 
had faded forever, soon grew confusedly overshad¬ 
owed. Perchance her consciousness was truer than 
her reflection — perchance her dead sister was a closer 
companion than in life. The mother and daughter 
talked a long while with Mr. Wigglesworth about a 
suitable epitaph, and finally chose an ordinary verse of 
ill-matched rhymes, which had already been inscribed 
upon innumerable tombstones. But when we ridicule 
the triteness of monumental verses, we forget that 
Sorrow reads far deeper in them than we can, and 
finds a profound and individual purport in what seems 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 


463 


so vague ai?d inexpressive, unless interpreted by her. 
She makes the epitaph anew, though the selfsame 
words may have served for a thousand graves. 

“ Ami yet,” said I afterwards to Mr. Wigglesworth, 
“ they might have made a better choice than this. 
While you were discussing the subject, I was struck 
by at least a dozen simple and natural expressions 
from the lips of both mother and daughter. One of 
these would have formed an inscription equally orig¬ 
inal and appropriate.” 

“No, no,” replied the sculptor, shaking his head; 
“ there is a good deal of comfort to be gathered from 
these little old scraps of poetry; and so I always 
recommend them in preference to any new-fangled 
ones. And somehow, they seem to stretch to suit a 
great grief, and shrink to fit a small one.” 

It was not seldom that ludicrous images were excited 
by what took place between Mr. Wigglesworth and 
his customers. A shrewd gentlewoman, who kept a 
tavern in the town, was anxious to obtain two or three 
gravestones for the deceased members of her family, 
and to pay for these solemn commodities by taking 
the sculptor to board. Hereupon a fantasy arose in 
my mind of good Mr. Wigglesworth sitting down to 
dinner at a broad, flat tombstone, carving one of his 
own plump little marble cherubs, gnawing a pair of 
cross-bones, and drinking out of a hollow death’s-head, 
or perhaps a lachrymatory vase, or sepulchral urn, 
while his hostess’s dead children waited on him at the 
ghastly banquet. On communicating this nonsensical 
picture to the old man he laughed heartily, and pro¬ 
nounced my humor to be of the right sort. 

“ I have lived at such a table all my days,” said he, 
u and eaten no small quantity of slate and marble.” 


464 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ Hard fare! ” rejoined I, smiling; “ but you seemed 
to have foimd it excellent of digestion, too.” 

A man of fifty, or thereabouts, with a harsh, un¬ 
pleasant countenance, ordered a stone for the grave 
of his bittter enemy, with whom he had waged warfare 
half a lifetime, to their mutual misery and ruin. The 
secret of this phenomenon was, that hatred had become 
the sustenance and enjoyment of the poor wretch’s 
sold ; it had supplied the place of all kindly affections; 
it had been really a bond of sympathy between himself 
and the man who shared the passion; and when its 
object died the unappeasable foe was the only mourner 
for the dead. He expressed a purpose of being buried 
side by side with his enemy. 

“ I doubt whether their dust will mingle,” remarked 
the old sculptor to me; for often there was an earthli- 
ness in his conceptions. 

“ Oh yes,” replied I, who had mused long upon the 
incident; “ and when they rise again, these bitter foes 
may find themselves dear friends. Methinks what they 
mistook for hatred was but love under a mask.” 

A gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided a 
memorial for an Indian of Chabbiquidick, one of the 
few of untainted blood remaining in that region, and 
said to be an hereditary chieftain, descended from the 
sachem who welcomed Governor Mayhew to the Vine¬ 
yard. Mr. Wigglesworth exerted his best skill to carve 
a broken bow and scattered sheaf of arrows, in mem¬ 
ory of the hunters and warriors whose race was ended 
here; but he likewise sculptured a cherub, to denote 
that the poor Indian had shared the Christian’s hope 
of immortality. 

“ Why,” observed I, taking a perverse view of the 
winged boy and the bow and arrows, “ it looks more 
like Cupid’s tomb than an Indian chief’s ! ” 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 


465 


“ You talk nonsense,” said the sculptor, with the 
offended pride of art; he then added with his usual 
good nature, “ How can Cupid die when there are such 
pretty maidens in the Vineyard ? ” 

“Very true,” answered I — and for the rest of the 
day I thought of other matters than tombstones. 

At our next meeting I found him chiselling an open 
book upon a marble headstone, and concluded that it 
was meant to express the erudition of some black- 
letter clergyman of the Cotton Mather school. It 
turned out, however, to be emblematical of the script¬ 
ural knowledge of an old woman who had never read 
anything but her Bible: and the monument was a trib¬ 
ute to her piety and good works from the Orthodox 
church, of which she had been a member. In strange 
contrast with this Christian woman’s memorial was 
that of an infidel, whose gravestone, by his own di¬ 
rection, bore an avowal of his belief that the spirit 
within him would be extinguished like a flame, and 
that the nothingness whence he sprang would receive 
him again. Mr. Wiggleswortli consulted me as to the 
propriety of enabling a dead man’s dust to utter this 
dreadful creed. 

“ If I thought,” said he, “ that a single mortal 
would read the inscription without a shudder, my 
chisel should never cut a letter of it. But when the 
grave speaks such falsehoods, the soul of man will 
know the truth by its own horror.” 

“So it will,” said I, struck by the idea; “the poor 
infidel may strive to preach blasphemies from his 
grave; but it will be only another method of impress¬ 
ing the soul with a consciousness of immortality.” 

There was an old man by the name of Norton, 
noted throughout the island for his greatli wealth, 
vol. i. 30 


466 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


which he had accumulated by the exercise of strong 
and shrewd faculties, combined with a most penurious 
disposition. This wretched miser, conscious that he 
had not a friend to be mindful of him in his grave, had 
himself taken the needful precautions for posthumous 
remembrance, by bespeaking an immense slab of 
white marble, with a long epitaph in raised letters, 
the whole to be as magnificent as Mr. Wigglesworth’s 
skill could make it. There was something very char¬ 
acteristic in this contrivance to have his money’s 
worth even from his own tombstone, which, indeed, 
afforded him more enjoyment in the few months that 
he lived thereafter, than it probably will in a whole 
century, now that it is laid over his bones. This inci¬ 
dent reminds me of a young girl, — a pale, slender, fee¬ 
ble creature, most unlike the other rosy and healthful 
damsels of the Vineyard, amid whose brightness she 
was fading away. Day after day did the poor maiden 
come to the sculptor’s shop, and pass from one piece 
of marble to another, till at last she pencilled her 
name upon a slender slab, which, I think, was of a 
more spotless white than all the rest. I saw her no 
more, but soon afterwards found Mr. Wigglesworth 
cutting her virgin name into the stone which she had 
chosen. 

“ She is dead — poor girl,” said he, interrupting the 
tune which he was whistling, “ and she chose a good 
piece of stuff for her headstone. Now which of these 
slabs would you like best to see your own name 
upon?” 

“ Why, to tell you the truth, my good Mr. Wiggles¬ 
worth,” replied I, after a moment’s pause, — for the 
abruptness of the question had somewhat startled me, 
— “ to be quite sincere with you, I care little or noth 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL. 


467 


ing about a stone for my own grave, and am somewhat 
inclined to scepticism as to the propriety of erecting 
monuments at all over the dust that once was human. 
The weight of these heavy marbles, though unfelt 
by the dead corpse of the enfranchised soul, presses 
drearily upon the spirit of the survivor, and causes 
him to connect the idea of death with the dungeon¬ 
like imprisonment of the tomb, instead of with the 
freedom of the skies. Every gravestone that you ever 
made is the visible symbol of a mistaken system. Our 
thoughts should soar upward with the butterfly—not 
linger with the exuviae that confined him. In truth 
and reason, neither those whom we call the living, and 
still less the departed, have anything to do with the 
grave.” 

“ I never heard anything so heathenish! ” said Mr. 
Wigglesworth, perplexed and displeased at sentiments 
which controverted all his notions and feelings, and 
implied the utter waste, and worse, of his whole life’s 
labor; “ would you forget your dead friends, the 
moment they are under the sod ? ” 

“ They are not under the sod,” I rejoined; “ then 
why should I mark the spot where there is no treasure 
hidden! Forget them? No! But to remember them 
aright, I would forget what they have cast off. And 
to gain the truer conception of Death, I would forget 
the Grave ! ” 

But still the good old sculptor murmured, and stum¬ 
bled, as it were, over the gravestones amid which he 
had walked through life. Whether he were right or 
wrong, I had grown the wiser from our companionship, 
and from my observations of nature and character as 
displayed by those who came, with their old griefs or 
their new ones, to get them recorded upon his slabs of 


468 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


marble. And yet, with my gain of wisdom, I had 
likewise gained perplexity; for there was a strange 
doubt in my mind, whether the dark shadowing of this 
life, the sorrows and regrets, have not as much real 
comfort in them — leaving religious influences out of 
the question—as what we term life’s joys. 



THE SHAKER BRIDAL. 


One day, in the sick chamber of Father Ephraim, 
who had been forty years the presiding elder over the 
Shaker settlement at Goshen, there was an assemblage 
of several of the chief men of the sect. Individuals 
had come from the rich establishment at Lebanon, 
from Canterbury, Harvard, and Alfred, and from all 
the other localities where this strange people have 
fertilized the rugged hills of New England by their 
systematic industry. An elder was likewise there, who 
had made a pilgrimage of a thousand miles from a vil¬ 
lage of the faithful in Kentucky, to visit his spiritual 
kindred, the children of the sainted mother Ann. He 
had partaken of the homely abundance of their tables, 
had quaffed the far-famed Shaker cider, and had 
joined in the sacred dance, every step of which is be¬ 
lieved to alienate the enthusiast from earth, and bear 
him onward to heavenly purity and bliss. His breth¬ 
ren of the north had now courteously invited him to 
be present on an occasion, when the concurrence of 
every eminent member of their community was pecul¬ 
iarly desirable. . 

The venerable Father Ephraim sat in his easy 
chair, not only hoary headed and infirm with age, but 
worn down by a lingering disease, which, it was evi¬ 
dent, would very soon transfer his patriarchal staff to 
other hands. At his footstool stood a man and woman, 
both clad in the Shaker garb. 

“ My brethren,’’ said Father Ephraim to the sur- 


470 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


rounding elders, feebly exerting himself to utter these 
few words, “ here are the son and daughter to whom 
I would commit the trust of which Providence is about 
to lighten my weary shoulders. Read their faces, I 
pray you, and say whether the inward movement of 
the spirit hath guided my choice aright.” 

Accordingly, each elder looked at the two candi¬ 
dates with a most scrutinizing gaze. The man, whose 
name was Adam Colburn, had a face sunburnt with 
labor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful, and 
traced with cares enough for a whole lifetime, though 
he had barely reached middle age. There was some¬ 
thing severe in his aspect, and a rigidity throughout 
his person, characteristics that caused him generally 
to be taken for a school-master, which vocation, in 
fact, he had formerly exercised for several years. The 
woman, Martha Pierson, was somewhat above thirty, 
thin and pale, as a Shaker sister almost invariably is, 
and not entirely free from that corpse-like appearance 
which the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated 
to impart. 

“ This pair are still in the summer of their years,” 
observed the elder from Harvard, a shrewd old man. 
“ I would like better to see the hoar-frost of autumn 
on their heads. Methinks, also, they will be exposed 
to peculiar temptations, on account of the carnal de¬ 
sires which have heretofore subsisted between them.” 

“ Nay, brother,” said the elder from Canterbury, 
“ the hoar-frost and the black-frost hath done its work 
on Brother Adam and Sister Martha, even as we 
sometimes discern its traces in our cornfields, while 
they are yet green. And why should we question the 
wisdom of our venerable Father’s purpose although 
this pair, in their early youth, have loved one anothei 


THE SHAKER BRIDAL. 


471 


as the world’s people love? Are there not many 
brethren and sisters among us, who have lived long 
together in wedlock, yet, adopting our faith, find their 
hearts purified from all but spiritual affection ? ” 
Whether or no the early loves of Adam and Martha 
had rendered it inexpedient that they should now pre¬ 
side together over a Shaker village, it was certainly 
most singular that such should be the final result of 
many warm and tender hopes. Children of neighbor¬ 
ing families, their affection was older even than their 
school-days; it seemed an innate principle, interfused 
among all their sentiments and feelings, and not so 
much a distinct remembrance, as connected with their 
whole volume of remembrances. But, just as they 
reached a proper age for their union, misfortunes had 
fallen heavily on both, and made it necessary that they 
should resort to personal labor for a bare subsistence. 
Even mider these circumstances, Martha Pierson 
would probably have consented to unite her fate with 
Adam Colburn’s, and, secure of the bliss of mutual 
love, would patiently have awaited the less important 
gifts of fortune. But Adam, being of a calm and 
cautious character, was loath to relinquish the advan¬ 
tages which a single man possesses for raising himself 
in the world. Year after year, therefore, their mar¬ 
riage had been deferred. Adam Colburn had followed 
many vocations, had travelled far, and seen much of 
the world and of life. Martha had earned her bread 
sometimes as a seamstress, sometimes as help to a 
farmer’s wife, sometimes as school-mistress of the vil¬ 
lage children, sometimes as a nurse or watcher of the 
sick, thus acquiring a varied experience, the ultimate 
use of which she little anticipated. But nothing had 
gone prosperously with either of the lovers; at no 


472 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


subsequent moment would matrimony have been so 
prudent a measure as when they had first parted, in 
the opening bloom of life, to seek a better fortune. 
Still they had held fast their mutual faith. Martha 
might have been the wife of a man who sat among 
the senators of his native state, and Adam could have 
won the hand, as he had unintentionally won the heart, 
of a rich and comely widow. But neither of them de¬ 
sired good fortmie save to share it with the other. 

At length that calm despair which occurs only in a 
strong and somewhat stubborn character, and yields to 
no second spring of hope, settled down on the spirit of 
Adam Colburn. He sought an interview with Martha, 
and proposed that they should join the Society of 
Shakers. The converts of this sect are oftener driven 
within its hospitable gates by worldly misfortune than 
drawn thither by fanaticism, and are received without 
inquisition as to their motives. Martha, faithful still, 
had placed her hand in that of her lover, and accom¬ 
panied him to the Shaker village. Here the natural 
capacity of each, cultivated and strengthened by the 
difficulties of their previous lives, had soon gained them 
an important rank in the Society, whose members are 
generally below the ordinary standard of intelligence. 
Their faith and feelings had, in some degree, become 
assimilated to those of their fellow-worshippers. Adam 
Colburn gradually acquired reputation, not only in the 
management of the temporal affairs of the Society, 
but as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. 
Martha was not less distinguished in the duties proper 
to her sex. Finally, when the infirmities of Father 
Ephraim had admonished him to seek a successor in 
his patriarchal office, he thought of Adam and Martha, 
and proposed to renew, in their persons, the primitive 


THE SHAKER BRIDAL. 


473 


form of Shaker government, as established by Mother 
Ann. They were to be the Father and Mother of the 
village. The simple ceremony, which would consti¬ 
tute them such, was now to be performed. 

“ Son Adam, and daughter Martha,” said the vener¬ 
able Father Ephraim, fixing his aged eyes piercingly 
upon them, “ if ye can conscientiously undertake this 
charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of 
your fitness.” 

“ Father,” replied Adam, speaking with the calm¬ 
ness of his character, “ I came to your village a disap¬ 
pointed man, weary of the world, worn out with con¬ 
tinual trouble, seeking only a security against evil 
fortune, as I had no hope of good. Even my wishes 
of worldly success were almost dead within me. I 
came hither as a man might come to a tomb, willing 
to lie down in its gloom and coldness, for the sake of 
its peace and quiet. There was but one earthly affec¬ 
tion in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my 
youth; so that I was satisfied to bring Martha to be 
my sister, in our new abode. We are brother and 
sister; nor would I have it otherwise. And in this 
peaceful village I have found all that I hoped for, — 
all that I desire. I will strive, with my best strength, 
for the spiritual and temporal good of our community. 
My conscience is not doubtful in this matter. I am 
ready to receive the trust.” 

“ Thou hast spoken well, son Adam,” said the Fa¬ 
ther. “ God will bless thee in the office which I am 
about to resign.” 

“But our sister!” observed the elder from Har¬ 
vard, “hath she not likewise a gift to declare her 
sentiments ? ” 

Martha started, and moved her lips, as if she would 


474 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


have made a formal reply to this appeal. But, had 
she attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the 
long-repressed feelings of childhood, youth, and wom¬ 
anhood, might have gushed from her heart, in words 
that it would have been profanation to utter there. 

44 Adam has spoken,” said she hurriedly; 44 his sen¬ 
timents are likewise mine.” 

But while speaking these few words, Martha grew 
so pale that she looked fitter to be laid in her coffin 
than to stand in the presence of Father Ephraim and 
the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there were some¬ 
thing awful or horrible in her situation and destiny. 
It required, indeed, a more than feminine strength of 
nerve, to sustain the fixed observance of men so ex¬ 
alted and famous throughout the sect as these were. 
They had overcome their natural sympathy with hu¬ 
man frailties and affections. One, when he joined the 
Society, had brought with him his wife and children, 
but never, from that hour, had spoken a fond word 
to the former, or taken his best-loved child upon his 
knee. Another, whose family refused to follow him, 
had been enabled — such was his gift of holy forti¬ 
tude — to leave them to the mercy of the world. The 
youngest of the elders, a man of about fifty, had been 
bred from infancy in a Shaker village, and was said 
never to have clasped a woman’s hand in his own, and 
to have no conception of a closer tie than the cold fra¬ 
ternal one of the sect. Old Father Ephraim was the 
most awful character of all. In his youth he had 
been a dissolute libertine, but was converted by Mother 
Ann herself, and had partaken of the wild fanaticism 
of the early Shakers. Tradition whispered, at the 
firesides of the village, that Mother Ann had been 
compelled to sear his heart of flesh with a red-hot iron 
before it could be purified from earthly passions. 


THE SHAKER BRIDAL . 


475 


However that might be, poor Martha had a woman’s 
heart, and a tender one, and it quailed within her, as 
she looked round at those strange old men, and from 
them to the calm features of Adam Colburn. But 
perceiving that the elders eyed her doubtfully, she 
gasped for breath, and again spoke. 

“ With what strength is left me by my many 
troubles,” said she, “ I am ready to imdertake this 
charge, and to do my best in it.” 

“ My children, join your hands,” said Father 
Ephraim. 

They did so. The elders stood up around, and the 
Father feebly raised himself to a more erect position, 
but continued sitting in his great chair. 

“I have bidden you to join your hands,” said he, 
“not in earthly affection, for ye have cast off its 
chains forever; but as brother and sister in spiritual 
love, and helpers of one another in your allotted 
task. Teach unto others the faith which ye have re¬ 
ceived. Open wide your gates, — I deliver you the 
keys thereof, — open them wide to all who will give 
up the iniquities of the world, and come hither to lead 
lives of purity and peace. Receive the weary ones, 
who have known the vanity of earth, — receive the 
little children, that they may never learn that misera¬ 
ble lesson. And a blessing be upon your laborsso 
that the time may hasten on, when the mission of 
Mother Ann shall have wrought its full effect, — when 
children shall no more be born and die, and the last 
survivor of mortal race, some old and weary man like 
me, shall see the sun go down, nevermore to rise on a 
world of sin and sorrow! ” 

The aged Father sank back exhausted, and the sur¬ 
rounding elders deemed, with good reason, that the 


476 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


hour was come when the new heads of the village 
must enter on their patriarchal duties. In their atten¬ 
tion to Father Ephraim, their eyes were turned from 
Martha Pierson, who grew paler and paler, unnoticed 
even by Adam Colburn. He, indeed, had withdrawn 
his hand from hers, and folded his arms with a sense 
of satisfied ambition. But paler and paler grew Mar¬ 
tha by his side, till, like a corpse in its burial clothes, 
she sank down at the feet of her early lover; for, 
after many trials firmly borne, her heart could endure 
the weight of its desolate agony no longer. 


NIGHT SKETCHES. 


BENEATH AN UMBRELLA. 

Pleasant is a rainy winter’s day, within doors! 
The best study for such a day, or the best amusement, 
— call it which you will, — is a book of travels, de¬ 
scribing scenes the most unlike that sombre one which 
is mistily presented through the windows. I have 
experienced that fancy is then most successful in im¬ 
parting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the objects 
which the author has spread upon his page, and that 
his words become magic spells to summon up a thou¬ 
sand varied pictures. Strange landscapes glimmer 
through the familiar walls of the room, and outlandish 
figures thrust themselves almost within the sacred pre¬ 
cincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, it has 
space enough to contain the ocean-like circumference 
of an Arabian desert, its parched sands tracked by the 
long line of a caravan, with the camels patiently jour¬ 
neying through the heavy sunshine. Though my ceil¬ 
ing be not lofty, yet I can pile up the mountains of 
Central Asia beneath it, till their summits shine far 
above the clouds of the middle atmosphere. And with 
my humble means, a wealth that is not taxable, I can 
transport hither the magnificent merchandise of an 
Oriental bazaar, and call a crowd of purchasers from 
distant countries to pay a fair profit for the precious 
articles which are displayed on all sides. True it is, 
however, that amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever 


478 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


else may seem to be going on around me, the rain-drops 
will occasionally be heard to patter against my window 
panes, which look forth upon one of the quietest streets 
in a New England town. After a time, too, the vis¬ 
ions vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding. 
Then, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of unreality 
depresses my spirits, and impels me to venture out, 
before the clock shall strike bedtime, to satisfy myself 
that the world is not entirely made up of such shad¬ 
owy materials as have busied me throughout the day. 
A dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies, that 
the things without him will seem as imreal as those 
within. 

When eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, 
tightly buttoning my shaggy overcoat, and hoisting 
my umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately 
resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible 
rain-drops. Pausing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast 
the warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside 
with the drear obscurity and chill discomfort into 
which I am about to plunge. Now come fearful augu¬ 
ries, innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not my 
manhood cry shame upon me I should turn back within 
doors, resume my elbow-chair, my slippers, and my 
book, pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment as 
the day has been, and go to bed inglorious. The 
same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled, for 
a moment, the adventurous spirit of many a traveller, 
when his feet, which were destined to measure the 
earth around, were leaving their last tracks in the 
home paths. 

In my own case poor human nature may be allowed 
a few misgivings. I look upward, and discern no sky, 
not even an unfathomable void, but only a black, im- 


NIGHT SKETCHES. 


479 


penetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all its 
lights were blotted from the system of the universe. 
It is as if Nature were dead, and the world had put on 
black, and the clouds were weeping for her. With 
their tears upon my cheek, I turn my eyes earthward, 
but find little consolation here below. A lamp is 
burning dimly at the distant corner, and throws just 
enough of light along the street to show and exag¬ 
gerate by so faintly showing the perils and difficulties 
which beset my path. Yonder dingily white remnant 
of a huge snow-bank, — which will yet cumber the 
sidewalk till the latter days of March, — over or 
through that wintry waste must I stride onward. 
Beyond lies a certain Slough of Despond, a concoc¬ 
tion of mud and liquid filth, ankle-deep, leg-deep, 
neck-deep, — in a word, of unknown bottom, — on 
which the lamplight does not even glimmer, but which 
I have occasionally watched in the gradual growth of 
its horrors from morn till nightfall. Should I flounder 
into its depths, farewell to upper earth! And hark! 
how roughly resounds the roaring of a stream, the 
turbulent career of which is partially reddened by the 
gleam of the lamp, but elsewhere brawls noisily 
through the densest gloom. Oh, should I be swept 
away in fording that impetuous and unclean torrent, 
the coroner will have a job with an unfortunate gen¬ 
tleman who would fain end his troubles anywhere 
but in a mud puddle ! 

Pshaw! I will linger not another instant at arm’s- 
length from these dim terrors, which grow more ob¬ 
scurely formidable the longer I delay to grapple with 
them. Now for the onset! And lo ! with little dam¬ 
age, save a dash of rain in the face and breast, a 
splash of mud high up the pantaloons, and the left 


i80 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


boot full of ice-cold water, behold me at the corner 
of the street. The lamp throws down a circle of red 
light around me : and twinkling onward from corner 
to corner I discern other beacons marshalling my way 
to a brighter scene. But this is a lonesome and dreary 
spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to the 
storm, with their blinds all closed, even as a man 
winks when he faces a spattering gust. How loudly 
tinkles the collected rain down the tin spouts! The 
puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me 
from various quarters at once- I have often observed 
that this corner is a haunt and loitering-place for those 
winds which have no work to do upon the deep, dash¬ 
ing ships against our iron-bound shores; nor in the 
forest, tearing up the sylvan giants with half a rood of 
soil at their vast roots. Here they amuse themselves 
with lesser freaks of mischief. See, at this moment, 
how they assail yonder poor woman, who is passing 
just within the verge of the lamplight! One blast 
struggles for her umbrella, and turns it wrong side 
outward ; another whisks the cape of her cloak across 
her eyes ; while a third takes most unwarrantable lib¬ 
erties with the lower part of her attire. Happily the 
good dame is no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity 
and fleshly substance ; else would these aerial tor¬ 
mentors whirl her aloft, like a witch upon a broom¬ 
stick, and set her down, doubtless, in the filthiest ken¬ 
nel hereabout. 

From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the 
centre of the town. Here there is almost as brilliant 
an illumination as when some great victory has been 
won, either on the battle-field or at the polls. Two 
rows of shops, with windows down nearly to the 
ground, cast a glow from side to side, while the black 


NIGHT SKETCHES. 


481 


night hangs overhead like a canopy, and thus keeps 
the splendor from diffusing itself away. The wet 
sidewalks gleam with a broad sheet of red light. The 
rain-drops glitter, as if the sky were pouring down 
rubies. The spouts gush with fire. Methinks the 
scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare which mor¬ 
tals throw around their footsteps in the moral world, 
thus bedazzling themselves till they forget the impen¬ 
etrable obscurity that hems them in, and that can be 
dispelled only by radiance from above. And after all 
it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the wanderers 
in it. Here comes one who has so long been familiar 
with tempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of 
the storm for a friendly greeting, as if it should say, 
“ How fare ye, brother ? ” He is a retired sea-cap^ 
tain, wrapped in some nameless garment of the pea- 
jacket order, and is now laying his course towards the 
Marine Insurance Office, there to spin yarns of gale 
and shipwreck with a crew of old sea-dogs like him¬ 
self. The blast will put in its word among their 
hoarse voices, and be understood by all of them. 
Next I meet an unhappy slipshod gentleman, with a 
cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a race 
with boisterous winds, and striving to glide between 
the drops of rain. Some domestic emergency or other 
has blown this miserable man from his warm fireside 
in quest of a doctor ! See that little vagabond — how 
carelessly he has taken his stand right underneath a 
spout, while staring at some object of curiosity in a 
shop-window ! Surely the rain is his native element; 
he must have fallen with it from the clouds, as frogs 
are supposed to do. 

Here is a picture, and a pretty one. A young man 
and a girl, both enveloped in cloaks, and huddled be- 

VOL. I. 31 


482 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


neath the scanty protection of a cotton umbrella. She 
wears rubber overshoes, but he is in his dancing 
pumps; and they are on their way, no doubt, to some 
cotillon party, or subscription ball at a dollar a head, 
refreshments included. Thus they struggle against 
the gloomy tempest, lured onward by a vision of fes¬ 
tal splendor. But, ah! a most lamentable disaster. 
Bewildered by che red, blue, and yellow meteors, in 
an apothecary’s window, they have stepped upon a 
slippery remnant of ice, and are precipitated into a 
confluence of swollen floods, at the corner of two 
streets. Luckless lovers ! Were it my nature to be 
other than a looker-on in life, I would attempt your 
rescue. Since that may not be, I vow, should you be 
drowned, to weave such a pathetic story of your fate 
as shall call forth tears enough to drown you both 
anew. Do ye touch bottom, my young friends? Yes ; 
they emerge like a water nymph and a river deity, 
and paddle hand in hand out of the depths of the 
dark pool. They hurry homeward, dripping, discon¬ 
solate, abashed, but with love too warm to be chilled 
by the cold water. They have stood a test which 
proves too strong for many. Faithful, though over 
head and ears in trouble ! 

Onward I go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow 
from the varied aspect of mortal affairs, even as my 
figure catches a gleam from the lighted windows, or 
is blackened by an interval of darkness. Not that 
mine is altogether a chameleon spirit, with no hue of 
its own. Now I pass into a more retired street, where 
the dwellings of wealth and poverty are intermingled, 
presenting a range of strongly contrasted pictures. 
Here, too, may be found the golden mean. Through 
yonder casement I discern a family circle, — the grand* 


NIGHT SKETCHES. 


488 


mother, the parents, and the children, — all flicker¬ 
ing, shadow-like, in the glow of a wood fire. Bluster, 
fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, against the 
window panes ! Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of 
that fireside. Surely my fate is hard that I should 
be wandering homeless here, taking to my bosom 
night and storm and solitude, instead of wife and 
children. Peace, murmurer ! Doubt not that darker 
guests are sitting round the hearth, though the warm 
blaze hides all but blissful images. Well; here is 
still a brighter scene. A stately mansion illuminated 
for a ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster 
lamps in every room, and sunny landscapes hanging 
round the walls. See! a coach has stopped, whence 
emerges a slender beauty, who, canopied by two um¬ 
brellas, glides within the portal, and vanishes amid 
lightsome thrills of music. Will she ever feel the 
night wind and the rain ? Perhaps, —perhaps! And 
will Death and Sorrow ever enter that proud man¬ 
sion ? As surely as the dancers will be gay within its 
halls to-night. Such thoughts sadden, yet satisfy my 
heart; for they teach me that the poor man in this 
mean, weather-beaten hovel, without a fire to cheer 
him, may call the rich his brother, — brethren by Sor¬ 
row, who must be an inmate of both their households, 
— brethren by Death, who will lead them both to other 
homes. 

Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. 
Now have I reached the utmost limits of the town, 
where the last lamp struggles feebly with the dark¬ 
ness, like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the 
borders of uncreated space. It is strange what sen¬ 
sations of sublimity may spring from a very humble 
source. Such are suggested by this hollow roar of a 


484 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


subterranean cataract, where the mighty stream of a 
kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate, and is 
seen no more on earth. Listen awhile to its voice of 
mystery, and fancy will magnify it till you start and 
smile at the illusion. And now another sound, — the 
rumbling of wheels, — as the mail-coach, outward 
bound, rolls heavily off the pavement, and splashes 
through the mud and water of the road. All night 
long the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro be¬ 
tween drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream 
of their own quiet beds, and awake to find them¬ 
selves still jolting onward. Happier my lot, who will 
straightway hie me to my familiar room, and toast 
myself comfortably before the fire, musing and fit¬ 
fully dozing, and fancying a strangeness in such sights 
as all may see. But first let me gaze at this solitary 
figure who comes hitherward with a tin lantern, which 
throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on the 
ground about him. He passes fearlessly into the un¬ 
known gloom, whither I will not follow him. 

This figure shall supply me with a moral, where¬ 
with, for lack of a more appropriate one, I may wind 
up my sketch. He fears not to tread the dreary path 
before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at 
the fireside of his home, will light him back to that 
same fireside again. And thus we, night wanderers 
through a stormy and dismal world, if we bear the 
lamp of Faith, enkindled at a celestial fire, it will 
surely lead us home to that heaven whence its radi¬ 
ance was borrowed. 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS. 


At noon of an autumnal day, more than two cen¬ 
turies ago, the English colors were displayed by the 
standard-bearer of the Salem trainband, which had 
mustered for martial exercise under the orders of 
John Endicott. It was a period when the religious 
exiles were accustomed often to buckle on their armor, 
and practise the handling of their weapons of war. 
Since the first settlement of New England, its pros¬ 
pects had never been so dismal. The dissensions 
between Charles the First and his subjects were then, 
and for several years afterwards, confined to the floor 
of Parliament. The measures of the King and min¬ 
istry were rendered more tyrannically violent by an 
opposition, which had not yet acquired sufficient confi¬ 
dence in its own strength to resist royal injustice with 
the sword. The bigoted and haughty primate. Laud, 
Archbishop of Canterbury, controlled the religious 
affairs of the realm, and was consequently invested 
with powers which might have wrought the utter ruin 
of the two Puritan colonies, Plymouth and Massachu¬ 
setts. There is evidence on record that our fore¬ 
fathers perceived their danger, but were resolved that 
their infant country should not fall without a struggle, 
even beneath the giant strength of the King’s right 
arm. 

Such was the aspect of the times when the folds of 
the English banner, with the Red Cross in its field, 
were flung out over a company of Puritans. Their 


486 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


leader, the famous Endicott, was a man of stem and 
resolute countenance, the effect of which was height¬ 
ened by a grizzled beard that swept the upper portion 
of his breastplate. This piece of armor was so highly 
polished that the whole surrounding scene had its 
image in the glittering steel. The central object in 
the mirrored picture was an edifice of humble archi¬ 
tecture with neither steeple nor bell to proclaim it— 
what nevertheless it was — the house of prayer. A 
token of the perils of the wilderness was seen in the 
grim head of a wolf, which had just been slain within 
the precincts of the town, and according to the regular 
mode of claiming the bounty, was nailed on the porch 
of the meeting-house. The blood was still plashing on 
the doorstep. There happened to be visible, at the 
same noontide hour, so many other characteristics of 
the times and manners of the Puritans, that we must 
endeavor to represent them in a sketch, though far less 
vividly than they were reflected in the polished breast¬ 
plate of John Endicott. 

In close vicinity to the sacred edifice appeared that 
important engine of Puritanic authority, the whipping¬ 
post — with the soil around it well trodden by the feet 
of evil doers, who had there been disciplined. At one 
corner of the meeting-house was the pillory, and at the 
other the stocks ; and, by a singular good fortune for 
our sketch, the head of an Episcopalian and suspected 
Catholic was grotesquely incased in the former ma¬ 
chine ; while a fellow-criminal, who had boisterously 
quaffed a health to the king, was confined by the legs 
in the latter. Side by side, on the meeting-house steps, 
stood a male and a female figure. The man was a 
tall, lean, haggard personification of fanaticism, bear* 
ing on his breast this label, — AW anton Gospelleb, 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS. 487 


— which betokened that he had dared to give inter* 
pretations of Holy Writ unsanctioned by the infallible 
judgment of the civil and religious rulers. His aspect 
showed no lack of zeal to maintain his heterodoxies, 
even at the stake. The woman wore a cleft stick 
on her tongue, in appropriate retribution for having 
wagged that unruly member against the elders of the 
church ; and her countenance and gestures gave much 
cause to apprehend that, the moment the stick should 
be removed, a repetition of the offence would demand 
new ingenuity in chastising it. 

The above-mentioned individuals had been sentenced 
to undergo their various modes of ignominy, for the 
space of one hour at noonday. But among the crowd 
were several whose punishment would be life-long; 
some, whose ears had been cropped, like those of puppy 
dogs; others, whose cheeks had been branded with the 
initials of their misdemeanors; one, with his nostrils 
slit and seared; and another, with a halter about his 
neck, which he was forbidden ever to take off, or to 
conceal beneath his garments. Metliinks he must 
have been grievously tempted to affix the other end of 
the rope to some convenient beam or bough. There 
was likewise a young woman, with no mean share of 
beauty, whose doom it was to wear the letter A on the 
breast of her gown, in the eyes of all the world and 
her own children. And even her own children knew 
what that initial signified. Sporting with her infamy, 
the lost and desperate creature had embroidered the 
fatal token in scarlet cloth, with golden thread and the 
nicest art of needlework; so that the capital A might 
have been thought to mean Admirable, or anything 
rather than Adulteress. • 

Let not the reader argue, from any of these evi- 



488 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


dences of iniquity, that the times of the Puritans were 
more vicious than our own, when, as we pass along 
the very street of this sketch, we discern no badge of 
infamy on man or woman. It was the policy of our 
ancestors to search out even the most secret sins, and 
expose them to shame, without fear or favor, in the 
broadest light of the noonday sun. Were such the 
custom now, perchance we might find materials for a 
no less piquant sketch than the above. 

Except the malefactors whom we have described, 
and the diseased or infirm persons, the whole male 
population of the town, between sixteen years and 
sixty, were seen in the ranks of the trainband. A 
few stately savages, in all the pomp and dignity of 
the primeval Indian, stood gazing at the spectacle. 
Their flint-headed arrows were but childish weapons 
compared with the matchlocks of the Puritans, and 
would have rattled harmlessly against the steel caps 
and hammered iron breastplates which inclosed each 
soldier in an individual fortress. The valiant John 
Endicott glanced with an eye of pride at his sturdy 
followers, and prepared to renew the martial toils of 
the day. 

“ Come, my stout hearts! ” quoth he, drawing his 
sword. “ Let us show these poor heathen that we can 
handle our weapons like men of might. Well for 
them, if they put us not to prove it in earnest! ” 

The iron-breasted company straightened their line, 
and each man drew the heavy butt of his matchlock 
close to his left foot, thus awaiting the orders of the 
captain. But, as Endicott glanced right and left 
along the front, he discovered a personage at some 
little distance with whom it behooved him to hold a 
parley. It was an elderly gentleman, wearing a black 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS. 489 


cloak and band, and a high-crowned hat, beneath 
which was a velvet skull-cap, the whole being the garb 
of a Puritan minister. This reverend person bore a 
staff which seemed to have been recently cut in the 
forest, and his shoes were bemired as if he had been 
travelling on foot through the swamps of the wilder¬ 
ness. His aspect was perfectly that of a pilgrim, 
heightened also by an apostolic dignity. Just as Endi- 
cott perceived him he laid aside his staff, and stooped 
to drink at a bubbling fountain which gushed into the 
sunshine about a score of yards from the corner of the 
meeting-house. But, ere the good man drank, he 
turned his face heavenward in thankfulness, and then, 
holding back his gray beard with one hand, he scooped 
up his simple draught in the hollow of the other. 

“What, ho! good Mr. Williams,” shouted Endi- 
cott. “ You are welcome back again to our town of 
peace. How does our worthy Governor Winthrop? 
And what news from Boston ? ” 

“ The Governor hath his health, worshipful Sir,” 
answered Roger Williams, now resuming his staff, and 
drawing near. “ And for the news, here is a letter, 
which, knowing I was to travel hitherward to-day, his 
Excellency committed to my charge. Belike it con¬ 
tains tidings of much import; for a ship arrived yes¬ 
terday from England.” 

Mr. Williams, the minister of Salem and of course 
known to all the spectators, had now reached the spot 
where Endicott was standing under the banner of his 
company, and put the Governor’s epistle into his hand. 
The broad seal was impressed with Winthrop’s coat of 
arms. Endicott hastily unclosed the letter and began 
to read, while, as his eye passed down the page, a 
wrathful change came over his manly countenance. 


490 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


The blood glowed through it, till it seemed to be kind¬ 
ling with an internal heat; nor was it unnatural to 
suppose that his breastplate would likewise become red- 
hot with the angry fire of the bosom which it covered. 
Arriving at the conclusion, he shook the letter fiercely 
in his hand, so that it rustled as loud as the flag above 
his head. 

“Black tidings these, Mr. Williams,” said he; 
“ blacker never came to New England. Doubtless you 
know their purport ? ” 

“Yea, truly,” replied Roger Williams; “for the 
Governor consulted, respecting this matter, with my 
brethren in the ministry at Boston; and my opinion 
was likewise asked. And his Excellency entreats you 
by me, that the news be not suddenly noised abroad, 
lest the people be stirred up unto some outbreak, and 
thereby give the King and the Archbishop a handle 
against us.” 

“ The Governor is a wise man — a wise man, and 
a meek and moderate,” said Endicott, setting his teeth 
grimly. “ Nevertheless, I must do according to my 
own best judgment. There is neither man, woman, 
nor child in New England, but has a concern as dear 
as life in these tidings; and if John Endicott’s voice 
be loud enough, man, woman, and child shall hear 
them. Soldiers, wheel into a hollow square! Ho, 
good people! Here are news for one and all of 
you.” 

The soldiers closed in around their captain; and he 
and Roger Williams stood together imder the banner 
of the Red Cross; while the women and the aged men 
pressed forward, and the mothers held up their chil¬ 
dren to look Endicott in the face. A few taps of the 
drum gave signal for silence and attention. 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS. 491 


“ Fellow-soldiers, — fellow-exiles,” began Endicott, 
speaking under strong excitement, yet powerfully re¬ 
straining it, “ wherefore did ye leave your native coun¬ 
try? Wherefore, I say, have we left the green and 
fertile fields, the cottages, or, perchance, the old gray 
halls, where we were born and bred, the churchyards 
where our forefathers lie buried ? Wherefore have we 
come hither to set up our own tombstones in a wilder¬ 
ness ? A howling wilderness it is! The wolf and the 
bear meet us within halloo of our dwellings. The sav¬ 
age lieth in wait for us in the dismal shadow of the 
woods. The stubborn roots of the trees break our 
ploughshares, when we would till the earth. Our 
children cry for bread, and we must dig in the sands 
of the sea-shore to satisfy them. Wherefore, I say 
again, have we sought this country of a rugged soil 
and wintry sky ? Was it not for the enjoyment of our 
civil rights ? Was it not for liberty to worship God 
according to our conscience ? ” 

“ Call you this liberty of conscience?” interrupted 
a voice on the steps of the meeting-house. 

It was the Wanton Gospeller. A sad and quiet 
smile flitted across the mild visage of Roger Williams. 
But Endicott, in the excitement of the moment, shook 
his sword wrathfully at the culprit — an ominous gest¬ 
ure from a man like him. 

“ What hast thou to do with conscience, thou 
knave?” cried he. “I said liberty to worship God, 
not license to profane and ridicule him. Break not in 
upon my speech, or I will lay thee neck and heels 
till this time to-morrow! Hearken to me, friends, nor 
heed that accursed rhapsodist. As I was saying, we 
have sacrificed all tilings, and have come to a land 
whereof the old world hath scarcely heard, that we 


492 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


might make a new world unto ourselves, and painfully 
seek a path from hence to heaven. But what think ye 
now ? This son of a Scotch tyrant — this grandson 
of a Papistical and adulterous Scotch woman, whose 
death proved that a golden crown doth not always 
save an anointed head from the block ” — 

“Nay, brother, nay,” interposed Mr. Williams; 
“ thy words are not meet for a secret chamber, far less 
for a public street.” 

“ Hold thy peace, Roger Williams ! ” answered En- 
dicott, imperiously. “ My spirit is wiser than thine 
for the business now in hand. I tell ye, fellow-exiles, 
that Charles of England, and Laud, our bitterest per¬ 
secutor, arch-priest of Canterbury, are resolute to pur¬ 
sue us even hither. They are taking counsel, saith 
this letter, to send over a governor-general, in whose 
breast shall be deposited all the law and equity of the 
land. They are minded, also, to establish the idola¬ 
trous forms of English Episcopacy; so that, when 
Laud shall kiss the Pope’s toe, as cardinal of Rome, 
he may deliver New England, bound hand and foot, 
into the power of his master! ” 

A deep groan from the auditors, — a somid of wrath, 
as well as fear and sorrow, — responded to this intel¬ 
ligence. 

“ Look ye to it, brethren,” resumed Endicott, with 
increasing energy. “ If this king and this arch-prelate 
have their will, we shall briefly behold a cross on the 
spire of this tabernacle which we have builded, and 
a high altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning 
round it at noonday. We shall hear the sacring bell, 
and the voices of the Romish priests saying the mass. 
But think ye, Christian men, that these abominations 
may be suffered without a sword drawn ? without a 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS. 493 


shot fired ? without blood spilt, yea, on the very stairs 
of the pulpit ? No, — be ye strong of hand and stout 
of heart! Here we stand on our own soil, which we 
have bought with our goods, which we have won with 
our swords, which we have cleared with our axes, 
which we have tilled with the sweat of our brows, 
which we have sanctified with our prayers to the God 
that brought us hither! Who shall enslave us here ? 
What have we to do with this mitred prelate, — with 
this crowned king ? What have we to do with Eng¬ 
land ? ” 

Endicott gazed round at the excited coimtenances 
of the people, now full of his own spirit, and then 
turned suddenly to the standard-bearer, who stood 
close behind him. 

“ Officer, lower your banner! ” said he. 

The officer obeyed ; and, brandishing his sword, 
Endicott thrust it through the cloth, and, with his left 
hand, rent the Red Cross completely out of the banner. 
He then waved the tattered ensign above his head. 

“ Sacrilegious wretch ! ” cried the liigh-churchman in 
the pillory, unable longer to restrain himself, “ thou 
hast rejected the symbol of our holy religion!” 

“ Treason, treason! ” roared the royalist in the 
stocks. “ He hath defaced the King’s banner! ” 

“ Before God and man, I will avouch the deed,” 
answered Endicott. “ Beat a flourish, drummer ! — 
shout, soldiers and people! — in honor of the ensign 
of New England. Neither Pope nor Tyrant hath part 
tn it now! 

With a cry of triumph, the people gave their sanc¬ 
tion to one of the boldest exploits which our history 
records. And forever honored be the name of Endi¬ 
cott! We look back through the mist of ages, and 


494 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


recognize in the rending of the Red Cross from New 
England’s banner the first omen of that deliverance 
which our fathers consummated after the bones of the 
stern Puritan had lain more than a century in the 
dust. 


THE LILY’S QUEST. 


AN APOLOGUE. 

Two lovers, once upon a time, had planned a little 
summer-house, in the form of an antique temple, which 
it was their purpose to consecrate to all manner of re¬ 
fined and innocent enjoyments. There they would hold 
pleasant intercourse with one another and the circle of 
their familiar friends; there they would give festivals 
of delicious fruit; there they would hear lightsome 
music, intermingled with the strains of pathos which 
make joy more sweet; there they would read poetry 
and fiction, and permit their own minds to flit away 
in day-dreams and romance; there, in short — for why 
should we shape out the vague sunshine of their hopes? 
— there all pure delights were to cluster like roses 
among the pillars of the edifice, and blossom ever new 
and spontaneously. So, one breezy and cloudless after¬ 
noon, Adam Forrester and Lilias Fay set out upon a 
ramble over the wide estate .which they were to possess 
together, seeking a proper site for their Temple of 
Happiness. They were themselves a fair and happy 
spectacle, fit priest and priestess for such a shrine ; 
although, making poetry of the pretty name of Lilias, 
Adam Forrester was wont to call her Lily, because 
her form was as fragile, and her cheek almost as pale. 

As they passed hand in hand down the avenue of 
drooping elms that led from the portal of Lilias Fay’s 
paternal mansion, they seemed to glance like winged 



496 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


creatures through the strips of sunshine, and to scatter 
brightness where the deep shadows fell. But setting 
forth at the same time with this youthful pair, there 
was a dismal figure, wrapped in a black velvet cloak 
that might have been made of a coffin pall, and with a 
sombre hat such as mourners wear drooping its broad 
brim over his heavy brows. Glancing behind them, 
the lovers well knew who it was that followed, but 
wished from their hearts that he had been elsewhere, 
as being a companion so strangely unsuited to their 
joyous errand. It was a near relative of Lilias Fay, 
an old man by the name of Walter Gascoigne, who 
had long labored under the burden of a melancholy 
spirit, which was sometimes maddened into absolute 
insanity, and always had a tinge of it. What a con¬ 
trast between the young pilgrims of bliss and their 
unbidden associate ! They looked as if moulded of 
heaven’s sunshine, and he of earth’s gloomiest shade ; 
they flitted along like Hope and Joy roaming hand in 
hand through life; while his darksome figure stalked 
behind, a type of all the woful influences which life 
could fling upon them. But the three had not gone 
far when they reached a spot that pleased the gentle 
Lily, and she paused. 

“ What sweeter place shall we find than this?” said 
she. “ Why should we seek farther for the site of our 
Temple ? ” 

It was indeed a delightful spot of earth, though 
undistinguished by any very prominent beauties, be¬ 
ing merely a nook in the shelter of a hill, with the 
prospect of a distant lake in one direction, and of a 
church spire in another. There were vistas and path¬ 
ways leading onward and onward into the green wood¬ 
lands, and vanishing away in the glimmering shade 


THE LILY'S QUEST. 


497 


The Temple, if erected here, would look towards the 
west: so that the lovers could shape all sorts of mag¬ 
nificent dreams out of the purple, violet, and gold of 
the sunset sky; and few of their anticipated pleasures 
were dearer than this sport of fantasy. 

“ Yes,” said Adam Forrester, “ we might seek all 
day and find no lovelier spot. We will build our 
Temple here.” 

But their sad old companion, who had taken his 
stand on the very site which they proposed to cover 
with a marble floor, shook his head and frowned; and 
the young man and the Lily deemed it almost enough 
to blight the spot, and desecrate it for their airy Tem¬ 
ple, that his dismal figure had thrown its shadow there. 
He pointed to some scattered stones, the remnants of 
a former structure, and to flowers such as young girls 
delight to nurse in their gardens, but which had now 
relapsed into the wild simplicity of nature. 

“Not here! ” cried old Walter Gascoigne. “ Here, 
long ago, other mortals built their Temple of Happi¬ 
ness. Seek another site for yours ! ” 

“ What! ” exclaimed Lilias Fay. “ Have any ever 
planned such a Temple save ourselves ? ” 

“ Poor child! ” said her gloomy kinsman. “ In 
one shape or other, every mortal has dreamed your 
dream.” 

Then he told the lovers how, not, indeed, an antique 
Temple, but a dwelling, had once stood there, and that 
a dark-clad guest had dwelt among its inmates, sitting 
forever at the fireside, and poisoning all their house¬ 
hold mirth. Under this ‘type, Adam Forrester and 
Lilias saw that the old man spake of Sorrow. He told 
of nothing that might not be recorded in the history 

of almost every household ; and yet his hearers felt 
vol. i. 32 


498 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


as if no sunshine ought to fall upon a spot where 
human grief had left so deep a stain ; or, at least, 
that no joyous Temple should be built there. 

“ This is very sad,” said the Lily, sighing. 

“Well, there are lovelier spots than this,” said 
Adam Forrester, soothingly, — “ spots which sorrow 
has not blighted.” 

So they hastened away, and the melancholy Gas¬ 
coigne followed them, looking as if he had gathered 
up all the gloom of the deserted spot, and was bearing 
it as a burden of inestimable treasure. But still they 
rambled on, and soon found themselves in a rocky 
dell through the midst of which ran a streamlet with 
ripple and foam, and a continual voice of inarticulate 
joy. It was a wild retreat, walled on either side with 
gray precipices, which would have frowned somewhat 
too sternly, had not a profusion of green shrubbery 
rooted itself into their crevices, and wreathed glad¬ 
some foliage around their solemn brows. But the 
chief joy of the dell was in the little stream, which 
seemed like the presence of a blissful child, with noth¬ 
ing earthly to do save to babble merrily and disport 
itself, and make every living soul its playfellow, and 
throw the sunny gleams of its spirit upon all. 

“Here, here is the spot! ” cried the two lovers with 
one voice as they reached a level space on the brink of 
a small cascade. “ This glen was made on purpose 
for our Temple! ” 

“ And the glad song of the brook will be always in 
our ears,” said Lilias Fay. 

“ And its long melody shall sing the bliss of oun 
lifetime,” said Adam Forrester, 

“Ye must build no Temple here! ” murmured theii 
dismal companion. 


r 


THE LILY'S QUEST. 499 

And there again was the old lunatic, standing just 
on the spot where they meant to rear their lightsome 
dome, and looking like the embodied symbol of some 
great woe, that, in forgotten days, had happened there. 
And, alas ! there had been woe, nor that alone. A 
young man, more than a hundred years before, had 
lured hither a girl that loved him, and on this spot 
had murdered her, and washed his bloody hands in 
the stream which sung so merrily. And ever since 
the victim’s death shrieks were often heard to echo 
between the cliffs. 

“ And see ! ” cried old Gascoigne, “ is the stream 
yet pure from the stain of the murderer’s hands ? ” 

“ Methinks it has a tinge of blood,” faintly an¬ 
swered the Lily ; and being as slight as the gossamer, 
she trembled and clung to her lover’s arm, whispering, 
“ Let us flee from this dreadful vale! ” 

“ Come, then,” said Adam Forrester, as cheerily as 
he could, “ we shall soon find a happier spot.” 

They set forth again, young Pilgrims on that quest 
which millions — which every child of Earth — has 
tried in turn. And were the Lily and her lover to be 
more fortunate than all those millions ? For a long 
time it seemed not so. The dismal shape of the old 
lunatic still glided behind them; and for every spot 
that looked lovely in their eyes, he had some legend 
of human wrong or suffering, so miserably sad that 
his auditors could never afterwards connect the idea 
of joy with the place where it had happened. Here, 
a heart-broken woman, kneeling to her child, had been 
spurned from his feet; here, a desolate old creature 
had prayed to the evil one, and had received a fiend¬ 
ish malignity of soul in answer to her prayer; here, 
a new-born infant, sweet blossom of life, had been 


500 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


found dead, with the impress of its mother’s fingers 
round its throat; and here, under a shattered oak, two 
lovers had been stricken by lightning, and fell black¬ 
ened corpses in each other’s arms. The dreary Gas¬ 
coigne had a gift to know whatever evil and lament¬ 
able thing had stained the bosom of Mother Earth; 
and when his funereal voice had told the tale, it ap¬ 
peared like a prophecy of future woe as well as a tra¬ 
dition of the past. And now, by their sad demeanor, 
you would have fancied that the pilgrim lovers were 
seeking, not a temple of earthly joy, but a tomb for 
themselves and their posterity. 

“ Where in this world,” exclaimed Adam Forrester, 
despondingly, “ shall we build our Temple of Happi¬ 
ness ? ” 

“ Where in this world, indeed! ” repeated Lilias 
Fay; and being faint and weary, the more so by the 
heaviness of her heart, the Lily drooped her head and 
sat down on the summit of a knoll, repeating, “ Where 
in this world shall we build our Temple ? ” 

“ Ah! have you already asked yourselves that ques¬ 
tion? ” said their companion, his shaded features grow¬ 
ing even gloomier with the smile that dwelt on them; 
“ yet there is a place, even in this world, where ye 
may build it.” 

While the old man spoke, Adam Forrester and 
Lilias had carelessly thrown their eyes around, and 
perceived that the spot where they had chanced to 
pause possessed a quiet charm, which was well enough 
adapted to their present mood of mind. It was a 
small rise of ground, with a certain regularity of 
shape, that had perhaps been bestowed by art; and a 
group of trees, which almost surrounded it, threw their 
pensive shadows across and far beyond, although some 


THE LILY'S QUEST. 501 

softened glory of the sunshine found its way there. 
The ancestral mansion, wherein the lovers would dwell 
together, appeared on one side, and the ivied church, 
where they were to worship, on another. Happening 
to cast their eyes on the ground they smiled, yet with 
a sense of wonder, to see that a pale lily was growing 
at their feet. 

“ We will build our Temple here,” said they, simul¬ 
taneously, and with an indescribable conviction that 
they had at last found the very spot. 

Yet, while they uttered this exclamation, the young 
man and the Lily turned an apprehensive glance at 
their dreary associate, deeming it hardly possible that 
some tale of earthly affliction should not make those 
precincts loathsome, as in every former case. The 
old man stood just behind them, so as to form the 
chief figure in the group, with his sable cloak muffling 
the lower part of his visage, and his sombre hat over¬ 
shadowing his brows. But he gave no word of dissent 
from their purpose ; and an inscrutable smile was ac¬ 
cepted by the lovers as a token that here had been no 
footprint of guilt or sorrow to desecrate the site of 
their Temple of Happiness. 

In a little time longer, while summer was still in 
its prime, the fairy structure of the Temple arose on 
the summit of the knoll, amid the solemn shadows of 
the trees, yet often gladdened with bright sunshine. 
It was built of white marble, with slender and grace¬ 
ful pillars supporting a vaulted dome; and beneath 
the centre of this dome, upon a pedestal, was a slab of 
dark-veined marble, on which books and music might 
be strewn. But there was a fantasy among the people 
of the neighborhood that the edifice was planned after 
an ancient mausoleum and was intended for a tomb, 


502 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


and that the central slab of dark-veined marble was 
to be inscribed with the names of buried ones. They 
doubted, too, whether the form of Lilias Fay could 
appertain to a creature of this earth, being so very 
delicate, and growing every day more fragile, so that 
she looked as if the summer breeze should snatch her 
up and waft her heavenward. But still she watched 
the daily growth of the Temple ; and so did old Wal¬ 
ter Gascoigne, who now made that spot his continual 
haunt, leaning whole hours together on his staff, and 
giving as deep attention to the work as though it had 
been indeed a tomb. In due time it was finished, and 
a day appointed for a simple rite of dedication. 

On the preceding evening, after Adam Forrester 
had taken leave of his mistress, he looked back to¬ 
wards the portal of her dwelling, and felt a strange 
thrill of fear; for he imagined that, as the setting 
sunbeams faded from her figure, she was exhaling 
away, and that something of her ethereal substance 
was withdrawn with each lessening gleam of light. 
With his farewell glance a shadow had fallen over 
the portal and Lilias was invisible. His foreboding 
spirit deemed it an omen at the time, and so it proved; 
for the sweet earthly form, by which the Lily had 
been manifested to the world, was found lifeless the 
next morning in the Temple, with her head resting 
on her arms, which were folded upon the slab of dark- 
veined marble. The chill winds of the earth had long 
since breathed a blight into this beautiful flower, so 
that a loving hand had now transplanted it, to blos¬ 
som brightly in the garden of Paradise. 

But alas, for the Temple of Happiness! In his un¬ 
utterable grief, Adam Forrester had no purpose more 
at heart than to convert this Temple of many delight- 


THE LILY'S QUEST. 


503 


ful hopes into a tomb, and bury his dead mistress 
there. And lo ! a wonder ! Digging a grave beneath 
the Temple’s marble floor, the sexton found no virgin 
earth, such as was meet to receive the maiden’s dust, 
but an ancient sepulchre, in which were treasured up 
the bones of generations that had died long ago. 
Among those forgotten ancestors was the Lily to be 
laid. And when the funeral procession brought Lilias 
thither in her coffin, they beheld old Walter Gascoigne 
standing beneath the dome of the Temple, with his 
cloak of pall and face of darkest gloom; and where- 
ever that figure might take its stand the spot would 
seem a sepulchre. He watched the mourners as they 
lowered the coffin down. 

“ And so,” said he to Adam Forrester, with the 
strange smile in which his insanity was wont to gleam 
forth, “ you have found no better foundation for your 
happiness than on a grave! ” 

But as the Shadow of Affliction spoke, a vision of 
Hope and Joy had its birth in Adam’s mind, even 
from the old man’s taunting words ; for then he knew 
what was betokened by the parable in which the Lily 
and himself had acted; and the mystery of Life and 
Death was opened to him. 

“ Joy! joy ! ” he cried, throwing his arms towards 
heaven, “ on a grave be the site of our Temple; and 
now our happiness is for Eternity ! ” 

With those words, a ray of sunshine broke through 
the dismal sky, and glimmered down into the sepul¬ 
chre ; while, at the same moment, the shape of old 
Walter Gascoigne stalked drearily away, because his 
gloom, symbolic of all earthly sorrow, might no longer 
abide there, now that the darkest riddle of humanity 
was read. 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 


It must be a spirit much unlike my own which can 
keep itself in health and vigor without sometimes 
stealing from the sultry sunshine of the world, to 
plunge into the cool bath of solitude. At intervals, 
and not unfrequent ones, the forest and the ocean sum¬ 
mon me — one with the roar of its waves, the other 
with the murmur of its boughs — forth from the 
haunts of men. But I must wander many a mile ere 
I could stand beneath the shadow of even one prime¬ 
val tree, much less be lost among the multitude of 
hoary trunks, and hidden from earth and sky by the 
mystery of darksome foliage. Nothing is within my 
daily reach more like a forest than the acre or two of 
woodland near some suburban farm-house. When, 
therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a neces¬ 
sity within me, I am drawn to the sea-shore, which 
extends its line of rude rocks and seldom trodden 
sands for leagues around our bay. Setting forth at 
my last ramble on a September morning, I bound my¬ 
self with a hermit’s vow to interchange no thoughts 
with man or woman, to share no social pleasure, but 
to derive all that day’s enjoyment from shore and sea 
and sky, — from my soul’s communion with these, and 
from fantasies and recollections, or anticipated reali¬ 
ties. Surely here is enough to feed a human spirit 
for a single day. Farewell, then, busy world! Till 
your evening lights shall shine along the street, — till 
they gleam upon my sea-flushed face as I tread home- 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 505 


ward, — free me from your ties, and let me be a 
peaceful outlaw. 

Highways and cross paths are hastily traversed; 
and, clambering down a crag, I find myself at the 
extremity of a long beach. How gladly does the 
spirit leap forth and suddenly enlarge its sense of 
being to the full extent of the broad, blue, sunny 
deep ! A greeting and a homage to the Sea! I de~ 
scend over its margin and dip my hand into the wave 
that meets me, and bathe my brow. That far-resound¬ 
ing roar is Ocean’s voice of welcome. His salt breath 
brings a blessing along with it. Now let us pace to¬ 
gether— the reader’s fancy arm-in-arm with mine — 
this noble beach, which extends a mile or more from 
that craggy promontory to yonder rampart of broken 
rocks. In front, the sea; in the rear, a precipitous 
bank, the grassy verge of which is breaking away, 
year after year, and flings down its tufts of verdure 
upon the barrenness below. The beach itself is a 
broad space of sand, brown and sparkling, with hardly 
any pebbles intermixed. Near the water’s edge there 
is a wet margin, which glistens brightly in the sun¬ 
shine, and reflects objects like a mirror; and as we 
tread along the glistening border, a dry spot flashes 
around each footstep, but grows moist again as we lift 
our feet. In some spots the sand receives a complete 
impression of the sole — square toe and all; else¬ 
where it is of such marble firmness that we must 
stamp heavily to leave a print even of the iron-shod 
heel. Along the whole of this extensive beach gam¬ 
bols the surf wave; now it makes a feint of dashing 
onward in a fury, yet dies away with a meek murmur, 
and does but kiss the strand; now, after many such 
abortive efforts, it rears itself up in an unbroken line, 


506 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


heightening as it advances, without a speck of foam 
on its green crest. With how fierce a roar it flings 
itself forward, and rushes far up the beach ! 

As I threw my eyes along the edge of the surf I 
remember that I was startled, as Robinson Crusoe 
might have been, bv the sense that human life was 
within the magic circle of my solitude. Afar off in 
the remote distance of the beach, appearing like sea- 
nymphs or some airier things such as might tread 
upon the feathery spray, was a group of girls. Hardly 
had I beheld them when they passed into the shadow 
of the rocks and vanished. To comfort myself — for 
truly I would fain have gazed a while longer — I made 
acquaintance with a flock of beach birds. These little 
citizens of the sea and air preceded me by about a 
stone’s throw along the strand, seeking, I suppose, for 
food upon its margin. Yet, with a philosophy which 
mankind would do well to imitate, they drew a con¬ 
tinual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence. The 
sea was each little bird’s great playmate. They 
chased it downward as it swept back, and again ran 
up swiftly before the impending wave, which some¬ 
times overtook them and bore them off their feet. 
But they floated as lightly as one of their own feathers 
on the breaking crest. In their airy flutterings they 
seemed to rest on the evanescent spray. Their images 
—long-legged little figures, with gray backs and snowy 
bosoms — were seen as distinctly as the realities in 
the mirror of the glistening strand. As I advanced 
they flew a score or two of yards, and, again alighting, 
recommenced their dalliance with the surf wave ; and 
thus they bore me company along the beach, the types 
of pleasant fantasies, till, at its extremity, they took 
wing over the ocean and were gone. After forming a 



FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 507 


friendship with these small surf spirits, it is really 
worth a sigh to find no memorial of them save their 
multitudinous little tracks in the sand. 

When we have paced the length of the beach it is 
pleasant and not unprofitable to retrace our steps, and 
recall the whole mood and occupation of the mind 
during the former passage. Our tracks being all dis¬ 
cernible will guide us with an observing consciousness 
through every unconscious wandering of thought and 
fancy. Here we followed the surf in its reflux to 
pick up a shell which the sea seemed loath to relin¬ 
quish. Here we found a sea-weed, with an immense 
brown leaf, and trailed it behind us by its long snake¬ 
like stalk. Here we seized a live horseshoe by the tail, 
and counted the many claws of the queer monster. 
Here we dug into the sand for pebbles, and skipped 
them upon the surface of the water. Here we wet 
our feet while examining a jelly-fish which the waves, 
having just tossed it up, now sought to snatch away 
again. Here we trod along the brink of a fresh-water 
brooklet which flows across the beach, becoming shal¬ 
lower and more shallow, till at last it sinks into the 
sand and perishes in the effort to bear its little tribute 
to the main. Here some vagary appears to have be¬ 
wildered us ; for our tracks go roimd and round and 
are confusedly intermingled, as if we had found a 
labyrinth upon the level beach. And here, amid our 
idle pastime, we sat down upon almost the only stone 
that breaks the surface of the sand, and were lost in 
an unlooked-for and overpowering conception of the 
majesty and awfulness of the great deep. Thus, by 
tracking our footprints in the sand, we track our own 
nature in its wayward course, and steal a glance upon 
it, when it never dreams of being so observed. Such 
glances always make us wiser. 


508 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


This extensive beach affords room for another pleas¬ 
ant pastime. With your staff you may write verses — 
love verses, if they please you best — and consecrate 
them with a woman’s name. Here, too, may be in¬ 
scribed thoughts, feelings, desires, warm outgushings 
from the heart’s secret places, which you would not 
pour upon the sand without the certainty that, almost 
ere the sky has looked upon them, the sea will wash 
them out. Stir not hence till the record be effaced. 
Now — for there is room enough on your canvas — 
draw huge faces — huge as that of the Sphinx on 
Egyptian sands — and fit them with bodies of cor¬ 
responding immensity, and legs which might stride 
half-way to yonder island. Child’s play becomes mag¬ 
nificent on so grand a scale. But, after all, the most 
fascinating employment is simply to write your name 
in the sand. Draw the letters gigantic, so that two 
strides may barely measure them, and three for the 
long strokes! Cut deep that the record may be per¬ 
manent ! Statesmen and warriors and poets have 
spent their strength in no better cause than this. Is 
it accomplished ? Return then in an hour or two and 
seek for this mighty record of a name. The sea will 
have swept over it, even as time rolls its effacing waves 
over the names of statesmen and warriors and poets. 
Hark, the surf wave laughs at you! 

Passing from the beach I begin to clamber over the 
crags, making my difficult way among the ruins of a 
rampart shattered and broken by the assaults of a 
fierce enemy. The rocks rise in every variety of atti¬ 
tude : some of them have their feet in the foam, and 
are shagged half-way upward with sea-weed; some 
have been hollowed almost into caverns by the un¬ 
wearied toil of the sea, which can afford to spend cen- 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 509 


fcuries in wearing away a rock, or even polishing a 
pebble. One huge rock ascends in monumental shape, 
with a face like a giant’s tombstone, on which the veins 
resemble inscriptions, but in an unknown tongue. We 
will fancy them the forgotten characters of an antedi¬ 
luvian race ; or else that Nature’s own hand has here 
recorded a mystery, which, could I read her language, 
would make mankind the wiser and the happier. How 
many a thing has troubled me with that same idea! 
Pass on and leave it unexplained. Here is a narrow 
avenue, which might seem to have been hewn through 
the very heart of an enormous crag, affording passage 
for the rising sea to thunder back and forth, filling it 
with tumultuous foam, and then leaving its floor of 
black pebbles bare and glistening. In this chasm 
there was once an intersecting vein of softer stone, 
which the waves have gnawed away piecemeal, while 
the granite walls remain entire on either side. How 
sharply, and with what harsh clamor, does the sea rake 
back the pebbles, as it momentarily withdraws into its 
own depths! At intervals the floor of the chasm is 
left nearly dry; but anon, at the outlet, two or three 
great waves are seen struggling to get in at once; 
two hit the walls athwart, while one rushes straight 
through, and all three thunder as if with rage and 
triumph. They heap the chasm with a snow-drift of 
foam and spray. While watching this scene, I can 
never rid myself of the idea that a monster, endowed 
with life and fierce energy, is striving to burst his 
way through the narrow pass. And what a contrast, 
to look through the stormy chasm, and catch a glimpse 
of the calm bright sea beyond ! . 

Many interesting discoveries may be made among 
these broken cliffs. Once, for example, I found a 


510 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


dead seal, which a recent tempest had tossed into the 
nook of the rocks, where his shaggy carcass lay rolled 
in a heap of eel-grass, as if the sea-monster sought to 
hide himself from my eye. Another time, a shark 
seemed on the point of leaping from the surf to swal¬ 
low me; nor did I, wholly without dread, approach 
near enough to ascertain that the man-eater had al¬ 
ready met his own death from some fisherman in the 
bay. In the same ramble I encountered a bird — a 
large gray bird — but whether a loon, or a wild goose, 
or the identical albatross of the Ancient Mariner, was 
beyond my ornithology to decide. It reposed so natur¬ 
ally on a bed of dry sea-weed, with its head beside its 
wing, that I almost fancied it alive, and trod softly 
lest it should suddenly spread its wings skyward. But 
the sea-bird would soar among the clouds no more, nor 
ride upon its native waves, so I drew near and pulled 
out one of its mottled tail-feathers for a remembrance. 
Another day, I discovered an immense bone wedged 
into a chasm of the rocks; it was at least ten feet 
long, curved like a cimeter, bejewelled with barnacles 
and small shell-fish, and partly covered with a growth 
of sea-weed. Some leviathan of former ages had used 
this ponderous mass as a jawbone. Curiosities of a 
minuter order may be observed in a deep reservoir, 
which is replenished with water at every tide, but be¬ 
comes a lake among the crags, save when the sea is at 
its height. At the bottom of this rocky basin grow 
marine plants, some of which tower high beneath the 
water and cast a shadow in the sunshine. Small fishes 
dart to and fro, and hide themselves among the sea¬ 
weed ; there is also a solitary crab, who appears to 
lead the life of a hermit, communing with none of the 
other denizens of the place; and likewise several five- 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 511 


fingers — for I know no other name than that which 
children give them. If your imagination be at all ac¬ 
customed to such freaks, you may look down into the 
depths of this pool, and fancy it the mysterious depth 
of ocean. But where are the hulks and scattered tim¬ 
bers of sunken ships ? — where the treasures that old 
Ocean hoards ?—where the corroded cannon ?—where 
the corpses and skeletons of seamen who went down in 
storm and battle ? 

On the day of my last ramble (it was a September 
day, yet as warm as summer), what should I behold 
as I approached the above described basin but three 
girls sitting on its margin, and — yes, it is veritably so 
— laving their snowy feet in the sunny water! These, 
these are the warm realities of those three visionary 
shapes that flitted from me on the beach. Hark! their 
merry voices as they toss up the water with their feet! 
They have not seen me. I must shrink behind this 
rock and steal away again. 

In honest truth, vowed to solitude as I am, there 
is something* in this encounter that makes the heart 
flutter with a strangely pleasant sensation. I know 
these girls to be realities of flesh and blood, yet, 
glancing at them so briefly, they mingle like kindred 
creatures with the ideal beings of my mind. It is 
pleasant, likewise, to gaze down from some high crag, 
and watch a group of children, gathering pebbles and 
pearly shells, and playing with the surf, as with old 
Ocean’s hoary beard. Nor does it infringe upon my 
seclusion to see yonder boat at anchor off the shore, 
swinging dreamily to and fro, and rising and sinking 
with the alternate swell; while the crew — four gen 
tlemen, in roundabout jackets — are busy with their 
fishing-lines. But, with an inward antipathy and a 


512 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


headlong flight, do I eschew the presence of any medi¬ 
tative stroller like myself, known by his pilgrim staff, 
his sauntering step, his shy demeanor, his observant 
yet abstracted eye. From such a man, as if another 
self had scared me, I scramble hastily over the rocks, 
and take refuge in a nook which many a secret hour 
has given me a right to call my own. I would do 
battle for it even with the churl that should produce 
the title deeds. Have not my musings melted into its 
rocky walls and sandy floor, and made them a portion 
of myself ? 

It is a recess in the line of cliffs, walled round by a 
rough, high precipice, which almost encircles and shuts 
in a little space of sand. In front, the sea appears as 
between the pillars of a portal. In the rear, the preci¬ 
pice is broken and intermixed with earth, which gives 
nourishment not only to clinging and twining shrubs, 
but to trees, that gripe the rock with their naked roots, 
and seem to struggle hard for footing and for soil 
enough to live upon. These are fir-trees; but oaks 
hang their heavy branches from above, and throw 
down acorns on the beach, and shed their withering 
foliage upon the waves. At this autumnal season the 
precipice is decked with variegated splendor ; trailing 
wreaths of scarlet flaunt from the summit downward; 
tufts of yellow-flowering shrubs, and rose-bushes, with 
their reddened leaves and glossy seed berries, sprout 
from each crevice; at every glance, I detect some new 
light or shade of beauty, all contrasting with the stern, 
gray rock. A rill of water trickles down the cliff 
and fills a little cistern near the base. I drain it at a 
draught, and find it fresh and pure. This recess shall 
be my dining hall. And what the feast ? A few bis¬ 
cuits made savory by soaking them in sea-water, a tuft 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SIIORE. 513 


of samphire gathered from the beach, and an apple for 
the dessert. By this time the little rill has filled its 
reservoir again; and, as I quaff it, I thank God more 
heartily than for a civic banquet, that He gives me 
the healthful appetite to make a feast of bread and 
v’ater. 

Dinner being over, I throw myself at length upon 
the sand, and, basking in the sunshine, let my mind 
disport itself at will. The walls of this my hermitage 
have no tongue to tell my follies, though I sometimes 
fancy that they have ears to hear them, and a soul to 
sympathize. There is a magic in this spot. Dreams 
haunt its precincts and flit around me in broad sun¬ 
light, nor require that sleep shall blindfold me to real 
objects ere these be visible. Here can I frame a story 
of two lovers, and make their shadows live before me 
and be mirrored in the tranquil water, as they tread 
along the sand, leaving no footprints. Here, should I 
will it, I can summon up a single shade, and be myself 
her lover. Yes, dreamer, — but your lonely heart will 
be the colder for such fancies. Sometimes, too, the 
Past comes back and finds me here, and in her train 
come faces which were gladsome when I knew them, 
yet seem not gladsome now. Would that my hiding- 
place were lonelier, so that the past might not find 
me! Get ye all gone, old friends, and let me listen 
to the murmur of the sea, — a melancholy voice, but 
less sad than yours. Of what mysteries is it telling ? 
Of sunken ships and whereabouts they lie ? Of isl¬ 
ands afar and undiscovered, whose tawny children are 
unconscious of other islands and of continents, and 
deem the stars of heaven their nearest neighbors? 

Nothing; of all this. What then ? Has it talked for 
© 

so many ages and meant nothing all the while ? No; 

vol. i. 33 


514 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


for those ages find utterance in the sea’s unchanging 
voice, and warn the listener to withdraw his interest 
from mortal vicissitudes, and let the infinite idea of 
eternity pervade his soul. This is wisdom; and, there¬ 
fore, will I spend the next half hour in shaping little 
boats of driftwood, and launching them on voyages 
across the cove, with a feather of a sea-gull for a sail. 
If the voice of ages tell me true, this is as wise an oc¬ 
cupation as to build ships of five hundred tons, and 
launch them forth upon the main, bound to “ far 
Cathay.” Yet, how would the merchant sneer at me! 

And, after all, can such philosophy be true? Me- 
thinks, I could find a thousand arguments against it. 
Well, then, let yonder shaggy rock, mid-deep in the 
surf — see! he is somewhat wrathful, — he rages and 
roars and foams — let that tall rock be my antagonist, 
and let me exercise my oratory like him of Athens, 
who bandied words with an angry sea and got the 
victory. My maiden speech is a triumphant one ; for 
the gentleman in sea-weed has nothing to offer in re¬ 
ply, save an immitigable roaring. His voice, indeed, 
will be heard a long while after mine is hushed. Once 
more I shout and the cliffs reverberate the sound. Oh, 
what joy for a shy man to feel himself so solitary, that 
he may lift his voice to its highest pitch without haz¬ 
ard of a listener! But, hush ! — be silent, my good 
friend ! — whence comes that stifled laughter ? It was 
musical, — but how should there be such music in my 
solitude? Looking upwards, I catch a glimpse of 
three faces, peeping from the summit of the cliff, like 
angels between me and their native sky. Ah, fair 
girls, you may make yourselves merry at my eloquence, 
— but it was my turn to smile when I saw your whito 
feet in the pool! Let us keep each other’s secrets. 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEA-SHORE. 515 


The sunshine has now passed from my hermitage, 
except a gleam upon the sand just where it meets the 
sea. A crowd of gloomy fantasies will come and 
haunt me if I tarry longer here in the darkening 
twilight of these gray rocks. This is a dismal place 
in some moods of the mind. Climb we, therefore, the 
precipice, and pause a moment on the brink, gazing 
down into that hollow chamber by the deep where we 
have been, what few can be, sufficient to our own pas¬ 
time — yes, say the word outright! — self-sufficient to 
our own happiness. How lonesome looks the recess 
now, and dreary too — like all other spots where hap¬ 
piness has been! There lies my shadow in the depart¬ 
ing sunshine with its head upon the sea. I will pelt 
it with pebbles. A hit! a hit! I clap my hands 
in triumph, and see! my shadow clapping its unreal 
hands, and claiming the triumph for itself. What a 
simpleton must I have been all day, since my own 
shadow makes a mock of my fooleries! 

Homeward! homeward! It is time to hasten home. 
It is time; it is time; for as the sun sinks over the 
western wave, the sea grows melancholy, and the surf 
has a saddened tone. The distant sails appear astray, 
and not of earth, in their remoteness amid the desolate 
waste. My spirit wanders forth afar, but finds no 
resting-place and comes shivering back. It is time 
that I were hence. But grudge me not the day that 
has been spent in seclusion, which yet was not solitude, 
since the great sea has been my companion, and the 
little sea-birds my friends, and the wind has told me 
his secrets, and airy shapes have flitted around me 
in my hermitage. Such companionship works an 
effect upon a man’s character, as if he had been 
admitted to the society of creatures that are not 


516 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


mortal. And when, at noontide, I tread the crowded 
streets, the influence of this day will still be felt; so 
that I shall walk among men kindly and as a brother, 
with affection and sympathy, but yet shall not melt 
into the indistinguishable mass of human-kind. I shall 
think my own thoughts, and feel my own emotions, 
and possess my individuality unviolated. 

But it is good, at the eve of such a day, to feel and 
know that there are men and women in the world. 
That feeling and that knowledge are mine at this 
moment; for, on the shore far below me, the fishing 
party have landed from their skiff, and are cooking 
their scaly prey by a fire of driftwood, kindled in the 
angle of two rude rocks. The three visionary girls 
are likewise there. In the deepening twilight, while 
the surf is dashed near their hearth, the ruddy gleam 
of the fire throws a strange air of comfort over the 
wild cove, bestrewn as it is with pebbles and sea-weed, 
and exposed to the “melancholy main.” Moreover, 
as the smoke climbs up the precipice, it brings with it 
a savory smell from a pan of fried fish and a black 
kettle of chowder, and reminds me that my dinner was 
nothing but bread and water, and a tuft of samphire 
and an apple. Methinks the party might find room 
for another guest at that flat rock which serves them 
for a table; and if spoons be scarce, I could pick up 
a clamshell on the beach. They see me now ; and — 
the blessing of a hungry man upon him! — one of 
them sends up a hospitable shout — halloo, Sir Soli¬ 
tary ! come down and sup with us! The ladies wave 
their handkerchiefs. Can I decline? No; and be it 
owned, after all my solitary joys, that this is the sweet¬ 
est moment of a Day by the Sea-Shore. 


EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD. 


There is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy 
than, while gazing at a figure of melancholy age, to 
recreate its youth, and, without entirely obliterating 
the identity of form and features, to restore those 
graces which time has snatched away. Some old 
people, especially women, so age-worn and wofid are 
they, seem never to have been young and gay. It is 
easier to conceive that such gloomy phantoms were 
sent into the world as withered and decrepit as we 
behold them now, with sympathies only for pain and 
grief, to watch at death-beds and weep at funerals. 
Even the sable garments of their widowhood appear 
essential to their existence; all their attributes com¬ 
bine to render them darksome shadows, creeping 
strangely amid the sunshine of human life. Yet it is 
no unprofitable task to take one of these doleful creat¬ 
ures, and set fancy resolutely at work to brighten the 
dim eye, and darken the silvery locks, and paint the 
ashen cheek with rose color, and repair the shrunken 
and crazy form, till a dewy maiden shall be seen in 
the old matron’s elbow-chair. The miracle being 
wrought, then let the years roll back again, each sad¬ 
der than the last, and the whole weight of age and 
sorrow settle down upon the youthful figure. Wrin¬ 
kles and furrows, the handwriting of Time, may thus 
be deciphered, and found to contain deep lessons of 
thought and feeling. Such profit might be derived 
by a skilful observer from my much-respected friend, 


518 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


the Widow Toothaker, a nurse of great repute, who 
has breathed the atmosphere of sick-cliambers and 
dying breaths these forty years. 

See! she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth, 
with her gown and upper petticoat drawn upward, 
gathering thriftly into her person the whole warmth 
of the fire, which, now at nightfall, begins to dissi¬ 
pate the autumnal chill of her chamber. The blaze 
quivers capriciously in front, alternately glimmering 
into the deepest chasms of her wrinkled visage, and 
then permitting a ghostly dimness to mar the outlines 
of her venerable figure. And Nurse Toothaker holds 
a teaspoon in her right hand, with which to stir up 
the contents of a tumbler in her left, whence steams 
a vapory fragrance, abhorred of temperance societies. 
Now she sips — now stirs — now sips again. Her sad 
old heart has need to be revived by the rich infusion of 
Geneva, which is mixed half and half with hot water, 
in the tumbler. All day long she has been sitting 
by a death-pillow, and quitted it for her home only 
when the spirit of her patient left the clay and went 
homeward too. But now are her melancholy medita¬ 
tions cheered, and her torpid blood warmed, and her 
shoulders lightened of at least twenty ponderous years, 
by a draught from the true Fountain of Youth in a 
case bottle. It is strange that men should deem that 
fount a fable, when its liquor fills more bottles than 
the congress water! Sip it again, good nurse, and see 
whether a second draught will not take off another 
score of years, and perhaps ten more, and show us, 
in your high-backed chair, the blooming damsel who 
plighted troths with Edward Fane. Get you gone, 
Age and Widowhood ! Come back, unwedded Youth! 
But, alas! the charm will not work. In spite of fancy’s 


EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD. 


519 


most potent spell, I can see only an old dame cower¬ 
ing over the fire, a picture of decay and desolation, 
while the November blast roars at her in the chimney, 
and fitful showers rush suddenly against the window. 

Yet there was a time when Rose Grafton — such 
was the pretty maiden name of Nurse Toothaker—• 
possessed beauty that would have gladdened this dim 
and dismal chamber as with sunshine. It won for her 
the heart of Edward Fane, who has since made so 
great a figure in the world and is now a grand old 
gentleman, with powdered hair, and as gouty as a 
lord. These early lovers thought to have walked hand 
in hand through life. They had wept together for 
Edward’s little sister Mary, whom Rose tended in her 
sickness, partly because she was the sweetest child 
that ever lived or died, but more for love of him. She 
was hut three years old. Being such an infant, Death 
could not embody his terrors in her little corpse; nor 
did Rose fear to touch the dead child’s brow, though 
chill, as she curled the silken hair around it, nor to 
take her tiny hand and clasp a flower within its fin¬ 
gers. Afterward, when she looked through the pane 
of glass in the coffin lid, and beheld Mary’s face, it 
seemed not so much like death, or life, as like a wax- 
work, wrought into the perfect image of a child asleep, 
and dreaming of its mother’s smile. Rose thought 
her too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and 
wondered that an angel did not snatch up little Mary’s 
coffin, and bear the slumbering babe to heaven, and 
bid her wake immortal. But when the sods were laid 
on little Mary, the heart of Rose was troubled. She 
shuddered at the fantasy, that, in grasping the child’s 
cold fingers, her virgin hand had exchanged a first 
greeting with mortality, and could never lose the 


520 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


earthly taint. How many a greeting since! But as 
yet, she was a fair young girl, with the dew-clrops of 
fresh feeling in her bosom; and instead of Rose, which 
seemed too mature a name for her half-opened beauty, 
her lover called her Rosebud. 

The rosebud was destined never to bloom for Ed¬ 
ward Fane. His mother was a rich and haughty dame 
with all the aristocratic prejudices of colonial times. 
She scorned Rose Grafton’s humble parentage, and 
caused her son to break his faith, though, had she let 
him choose, he would have prized his Rosebud above 
the richest diamond. The lovers parted, and have 
seldom met again. Both may have visited the same 
mansions, but not at the same time; for one was bid¬ 
den to the festal hall, and the other to the sick-cham¬ 
ber ; he was the guest of Pleasure and Prosperity, and 
she of Anguish. Rose, after their separation, was 
long secluded within the dwelling of Mr. Toothaker, 
whom she married with the revengeful hope of break¬ 
ing her false lover’s heart. She went to her bride¬ 
groom’s arms with bitterer tears, they say, than young 
girls ought to shed at the threshold of the bridal 
chamber. Yet, though her husband’s head was getting 
gray, and his heart had been chilled with an autumnal 
frost, Rose soon began to love him, and wondered at 
her own conjugal affection. He was all she had to 
love; there were no children. 

In a year or two, poor Mr. Toothaker was visited 
with a wearisome infirmity, which settled in his joints, 
and made him weaker than a child. He crept forth 
about his business, and came home at dinner time and 
eventide, not with the manly tread that gladdens a 
wife’s heart, but slowly, feebly, jotting down each dull 
footstep with a melancholy dub of his staff. We must 


EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD. 


521 


pardon his pretty wife, if she sometimes blushed to 
own him. Her visitors, when they heard him coming, 
looked for the appearance of some old, old man; but 
he dragged his nerveless limbs into the parlor — and 
there was Mr. Toothaker! The disease increasing, 
he never went into the sunshine, save with a staff in 
his right hand and his left on his wife’s shoulder, 
bearing heavily downward, like a dead man’s hand. 
Thus, a slender woman, still looking maiden-like, she 
supported his tall, broad-chested frame along the path¬ 
way of their little garden, and plucked the roses for 
her gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly, as to 
an infant. His mind was palsied with his body; its 
utmost energy was peevishness. In a few months 
more, she helped him up the staircase, with a pause at 
every step, and a longer one upon the landing-place, 
and a heavy glance behind, as he crossed the threshold 
of his chamber. He knew, poor man, that the pre¬ 
cincts of those four walls would thenceforth be his 
world — his world, his home, his tomb — at once a 
dwelling and a burial-place, till he were borne to a 
darker and a narrower one. But Rose was with him 
in the tomb. He leaned upon her in his daily passage 
from the bed to the chair by the fireside, and back 
again from the weary chair to the joyless bed — his 
bed and hers — their marriage-bed; till even this 
short journey ceased, and his head lay all day upon 
the pillow, and hers all night beside it. How long 
poor Mr. Toothaker was kept in misery! Death 
seemed to draw near the door, and often to lift the 
latch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull into the 
chamber, nodding to Rose, and pointing at her hus¬ 
band, but still delayed to enter. ‘■•This bedridden 
wretch cannot escape me!” quoth Death. “I will go 


522 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


forth and run a race with the swift, and fight a battle 
with the strong, and come back for Tootliaker at my 
leisure ! ” Oh, when the deliverer came so near, in the 
dull anguish of her worn-out sympathies, did she never 
long to cry, “ Death, come in! ” , 

But, no ! We have no right to ascribe such a wish 
to our friend Rose. She never failed in a wife’s duty 
to her poor sick husband. She murmured not, though 
a glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to her as 
him, nor answered peevishly, though his complaining 
accents roused her from her sweetest dream, only to 
share his wretchedness. He knew her faith, yet nour¬ 
ished a cankered jealousy; and when the slow disease 
had chilled all his heart, save one lukewarm spot, 
which Death’s frozen fingers were searching for, his 
last words were: “ What would my Rose have done 
for her first love, if she has been so true and kind to 
a sick old man like me! ” And then his poor soul 
crept away, and left the body lifeless, though hardly 
more so than for years before, and Rose a widow, 
though in truth it was the wedding-night that wid¬ 
owed her. She felt glad, it must be owned, when Mr. 
Tootliaker was buried, because his corpse had retained 
such a likeness to the man half alive, that she heark¬ 
ened for the sad murmur of his voice, bidding her 
shift his pillow. But all through the next winter, 
though the grave had held him many a month, she 
fancied him calling from that cold bed, “ Rose! Rose! 
come put a blanket on my feet! ” 

So now the Rosebud was the Widow Tootliaker. 
Her troubles had come early, and, tedious as they 
seemed, had passed before all her bloom was fled 
She was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or- 
with a widow’s cheerful gravity, she might have won 


EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD. 


523 


a widower, stealing into liis heart in the very guise of 
his dead wife. But the Widow Toothaker had no 
such projects. By her watchings and continual cares 
her heart had become knit to her first husband with 
a constancy which changed its very nature, and made 
her love him for his infirmities, and infirmity for his 
sake. When the palsied old man was gone, even her 
early lover could not have supplied his place. She 
had dwelt in a sick-chamber, and been the companion 
of a half-dead wretch, till she could scarcely breathe in 
a free air, and felt ill at ease with the healthy and 
the happy. She missed the fragrance of the doctor’s 
stuff. She walked the chamber with a noiseless foot¬ 
fall. If visitors came in she spoke in soft and sooth¬ 
ing accents, and was startled and shocked by their 
loud voices. Often, in the lonesome evening, she 
looked timorously from the fireside to the bed, with al¬ 
most a hope of recognizing a ghastly face upon the pil¬ 
low. Then went her thoughts sadly to her husband’s 
grave. If one impatient throb had wronged him in 
his lifetime, — if she had secretly repined because 
her buoyant youth was imprisoned with his torpid age, 
— if ever, while slumbering beside him, a treacherous 
dream had admitted another into her heart, — yet the 
sick man had been preparing a revenge which the 
dead now claimed. On his painful pillow he had cast 
a spell around her ; his groans and misery had proved 
more captivating charms than gayety and youthful 
grace; in his semblance Disease itself had won the 
Rosebud for a bride ; nor could his death dissolve the 
nuptials. By that indissoluble bond she had gained a 
home in every sick-chamber, and nowhere else: there 
were her brethren and sisters; thither her husband 
summoned her with that voice which had seemed to 


524 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


issue from the grave of Toothaker. At length she 
recognized her destiny. 

We have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the 
widow; now we see her in a separate and insulated 
character ; she was, in all her attributes, Nurse Tooth¬ 
aker. And Nurse Toothaker alone, with her own 
shrivelled lips, could make known her experience in 
that capacity. What a history might she record of 
the great sicknesses in which she has gone hand in 
hand with the exterminating angel! She remembers 
when the small-pox hoisted a red banner on almost 
every house along the street. She has witnessed when 
the typhus fever swept off a whole household, young 
and old, all but a lonely mother, who vainly shrieked 
to follow her last loved one. Where would be Death’s 
triumph, if none lived to weep ? She can speak of 
strange maladies that have broken out, as if sponta¬ 
neously, but were found to have been imported from 
foreign lands, with rich silks and other merchandise, 
the costliest portion of the cargo. And once, she rec¬ 
ollects, the people died of what was considered a new 
pestilence, till the doctors traced it to the ancient 
grave of a young girl, who thus caused many deaths 
a hundred years after her own burial. Strange, that 
such black mischief should lurk in a maiden’s grave! 
She loves to tell how strong men fight with fiery 
fevers, utterly refusing to give up their breath; and 
how consumptive virgins fade out of the world, 
scarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing 
them to a far country. Tell us, thou fearful woman ! 
tell us the death secrets! Fain would I search out the 
meaning of words, faintly gasped with intermingled 
sobs and broken sentences, half audibly spoken be« 
tween earth and the judgment seat! 


I 


EDWARD FANE'S ROSEBUD. 525 

An awful woman! She is the patron saint of young 
physicians, and the bosom friend of old ones. In 
the mansions where she enters, the inmates provide 
themselves black garments; the coffin maker follows 
her; and the bell tolls as she comes away from the 
threshold. Death himself has met her at so many a 
bedside, that he puts forth his bony hand to greet 
Nurse Tootliaker. She is an awful woman ! And, 
oh! is it conceivable, that this handmaid of human 
infirmity and affliction — so darkly stained, so thor¬ 
oughly imbued with all that is saddest in the doom of 
mortals — can ever again be bright and gladsome, 
even though bathed in the sunshine of eternity ? By 
her long communion with woe has she not forfeited 
her inheritance of immortal joy ? Does any germ of 
bliss survive within her? 

Hark ! — an eager knocking at Nurse Toothaker’s 
door. She starts from her drowsy reverie, sets aside 
the empty tumbler and teaspoon, and lights a lamp 
at the dim embers of the fire. Rap, rap, rap ! again ; 
and she hurries adown the staircase, wondering which 
of her friends can be at death’s door now, since there 
is such an earnest messenger at Nurse Toothaker’s. 
Again the peal resounds, just as her hand is on the 
lock. “ Be quick, Nurse Toothaker! ” cries a man on 
the doorsteps; “ old General Fane is taken with the 
gout in his stomach, and has sent for you to watch by 
his death-bed. Make haste, for there is no time to 
lose ! ” “ Fane ! Edward Fane ! And has he sent for 
me at last ? I am ready ! I will get on my cloak 
and begone. So,” adds the sable-gowned, ashen-vis- 
aged, funereal old figure, “ Edward Fane remembers 
his Rosebud! ” 

Our question is answered. There is a germ of bliss 


I 


526 TWICE-TOLD TALES. 

within her. Her long-hoarded constancy — her mem¬ 
ory of the bliss that was — remaining amid the gloom 
of her after life like a sweet-smelling flower in a cof¬ 
fin, is a symbol that all may be renewed. In some 
happier clime the Rosebud may revive again with all 
the dewdrops in its bosom. 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 


A FAIRY LEGEND. 

I HAVE sometimes produced a singular and not un¬ 
pleasing effect, so far as my own mind was concerned, 
by imagining a train of incidents in which the spirit 
and mechanism of the fairy legend should be combined 
with the characters and manners of familiar life. In 
the little tale which follows, a subdued tinge of the 
wild and wonderful is thrown over a sketch of New 
England personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped, 
without entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature. 
Rather than a story of events claiming to be real, it 
may be considered as an allegory, such as the writers 
of the last century would have expressed in the shape 
of an Eastern tale, but to which I have endeavored to 
give a more life-like warmth than could be infused into 
those fanciful productions. 

In the twilight of a summer eve, a tall, dark figure, 
over which long and remote travel had thrown an out¬ 
landish aspect, was entering a village, not in “ Fairy 
Londe,” but within our own familiar boundaries. The 
staff on which this traveller leaned had been his com¬ 
panion from the spot where it grew, in the jungles of 
Hindostan; the hat that overshadowed his sombre 
brow had shielded him from the suns of Spain: but 
his cheek had been blackened by the red-hot wind of 
an Arabian desert, and had felt the frozen breath of 
an Arctic region. Long sojourning amid wild and 



528 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


dangerous men, he still wore beneath his vest the ata- 
ghan which he had once struck into the throat of a 
Turkish robber. In every foreign clime he had lost 
something of his New England characteristics; and, 
perhaps, from every people he had unconsciously bor¬ 
rowed a new peculiarity; so that when the world-wan¬ 
derer again trod the street of his native village it is 
no wonder that he passed unrecognized, though excit¬ 
ing the gaze and curiosity of all. Yet, as his arm 
casually touched that of a young woman who was 
wending her way to an evening lecture she started, 
and almost uttered a cry. 

“ Ralph Cranfield! ” was the name that she half 
articulated. 

“ Can that be my old playmate, Faith Egerton ? ” 
thought the traveller, looking round at her figure, but 
without pausing. 

Ralph Cranfield, from his youth upward, had felt 
himself marked out for a high destiny. He had im¬ 
bibed the idea — we say not whether it were revealed 
to him by witchcraft, or in a dream of prophecy, or 
that his brooding fancy had palmed its own dictates 
upon him as the oracles of a Sibyl! — but he had im¬ 
bibed the idea, and held it firmest among his articles 
of faith, that three marvellous events of his life were 
to be confirmed to him by three signs. 

The first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the 
one on which his youthful imagination had dwelt most 
fondly, was the discovery of the maid who alone, of all 
the maids on earth, could make him happy by her love. 
He was to roam around the world till he should meet 
a beautiful woman wearing on her bosom a jewel in 
the shape of a heart; whether of pearl, or ruby, or 
emerald, or carbuncle, or a changeful opal, or perhaps 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 529 

a priceless diamond, Ralph Cranfield little cared, so 
long as it were a heart of one peculiar shape. On 
encountering this lovely stranger, he was bound to 
address her thus: “ Maiden, I have brought you a 
heavy heart. May I rest its weight on you?” And 
if she were his fated bride — if their kindred souls 
were destined to form a union here below, which all 
eternity should only bind more closely — she would 
reply, with her finger on the heart-shaped jewel, — 
“ This token, which I have worn so long, is the assur¬ 
ance that you may! ” 

And, secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief 
that there was a mighty treasure hidden somewhere in 
the earth, of which the burial-place would be revealed 
to none but him. When his feet should press upon 
the mysterious spot, there would be a hand before him 
pointing downward — whether carved of marble, or 
hewn in gigantic dimensions on the side of a rocky 
precipice, or perchance a hand of flame in empty air, 
he could not tell; but, at least, he would discern a 
hand, the forefinger pointing downward, and beneath 
it the Latin word Effode — Dig ! and digging there¬ 
abouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the precious stones, 
or of whatever else the treasure might consist, would 

be certain to reward his toil. 

The third and last of the miraculous events in the 
life of this high-destined man was to be the attainment 
of extensive influence and sway over his fellow-crea- 
tures. Whether he were to be a king and founder of 
an hereditary throne, or the victorious leader of a peo¬ 
ple contending for their freedom, or the apostle of a 
purified and regenerated faith, was left for futurity to 
show. As messengers of the sign by which Ralph 
Cranfield might recognize the summons, three vener- 

vol. i. 34 


630 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


able men were to claim audience of him. The chief 
among them, a dignified and majestic person, arrayed, 
it may be supposed, in the flowing garments of an an¬ 
cient sage, would be the bearer of a wand or prophet’s 
rod. With this wand, or rod, or staff, the venerable 
sage would trace a certain figure in the air, and then 
proceed to make known his heaven-instructed message ; 
which, if obeyed, must lead to glorious results. 

With this proud fate before him, in the flush of his 
imaginative youth, Ralph Cranfield had set forth to 
seek the maid, the treasure, and the venerable sage 
with his gift of extended empire. And had he found 
them ? Alas! it was not with the aspect of a triumph¬ 
ant man, who had achieved a nobler destiny than all 
his fellows, but rather with the gloom of one strug¬ 
gling against peculiar and continual adversity, that he 
now passed homeward to his mother’s cottage. He 
had come back, but only for a time, to lay aside the 
pilgrim’s staff, trusting that his weary manhood would 
regain somewhat of the elasticity of youth, in the spot 
where his threefold fate had been foreshown him. 
There had been few changes in the village; for it 
was not one of those thriving places where a year’s 
prosperity makes more than the havoc of a century’s 
decay ; but like a gray hair in a young man’s head, 
an antiquated little town, full of old maids, and aged 
elms, and moss-grown dwellings. Few seemed to be 
the changes here. The drooping elms, indeed, had a 
more majestic spread ; the weather-blackened houses 
were adorned with a denser thatch of verdant moss ; 
and doubtless there were a few more gravestones in 
the burial ground, inscribed with names that had once 
been familiar in the village street. Yet, summing up 
all the mischief that ten years had wrought, it seemed 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 


531 


scarcely more than if Ralph Cranfield had gone forth 
that very morning, and dreamed a day-dream till the 
twilight, and then turned back again. But his heart 
grew cold because the village did not remember him 
as he remembered the village. 

“.Here is the change ! ” sighed he, striking his hand 
upon his breast. “ Who is this man of thought and 
care, weary with world-wandering and heavy with dis¬ 
appointed hopes ? The youth returns not, who went 
forth so joyously! ” 

And now Ralph Cranfield was at his mother’s gate, 
in front of the small house where the old lady, with 
slender but sufficient means, had kept herself com¬ 
fortable during her son’s long absence. Admitting 
himself within the enclosure, he leaned against a 
great, old tree, trifling with his own impatience, as 
people often do in those intervals when years are 
summed into a moment. He took a minute survey 
of the dwelling — its windows brightened with the 
sky gleam, its doorway, with the half of a millstone 
for a step, and the faintly-traced path waving thence to 
the gate. He made friends again with his childhood’s 
friend, the old tree against which he leaned; and 
glancing his eye adown its trunk, beheld something 
that excited a melancholy smile. It was a half oblit¬ 
erated inscription — the Latin word Effode — which 
he remembered to have carved in the bark of the tree, 
with a whole day’s toil, when he had first begun to 
muse about his exalted destiny. It might be accounted 
a rather singular coincidence, that the bark just above 
the inscription, had put forth an excrescence, shaped 
not unlike a hand, with the forefinger pointing ob¬ 
liquely at the word of fate. Such, at least, was its 
appearance in the dusky light. 


582 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ Now a credulous man,” said Ralph Cranfield care¬ 
lessly to himself, “might suppose that the treasure 
which I have sought round the world lies buried, after 
all, at the very door of my mother’s dwelling. That 
would be a jest indeed! ” 

More he thought not about the matter; for now the 
door was opened, and an elderly woman appeared on 
the threshold, peering into the dusk to discover who it 
might be that had intruded on her premises, and was 
standing in the shadow of her tree. It was Ralph 
Cranfield’s mother. Pass we over their greeting, and 
leave the one to her joy and the other to his rest, — 
if quiet rest be found. 

But when morning broke, he arose with a troubled 
brow; for his sleep and his wakefulness had alike been 
full of dreams. All the fervor was rekindled with 
which he had burned of yore to unravel the threefold 
mystery of his fate. The crowd of his early visions 
seemed to have awaited him beneath his mother’s roof, 
and thronged riotously around to welcome his return. 
In the well-remembered chamber, on the pillow where 
his infancy had slumbered, he had passed a wilder 
night than ever in an Arab tent, or when he had re¬ 
posed his head in the ghastly shades of a haunted for¬ 
est. A shadowy maid had stolen to his bedside, and 
laid her finger on the scintillating heart; a hand of 
flame had glowed amid the darkness, pointing down¬ 
ward to a mystery within the earth; a hoary sage had 
waved his prophetic wand, and beckoned the dreamer 
onward to a chair of state. The same phantoms, 
though fainter in the daylight, still flitted about the 
cottage, and mingled among the crowd of familiar faces 
that were drawn thither by the news of Ralph Cran- 
field’s return, to bid him welcome for his mother’s 



THE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 


533 


sake. There they found him, a tall, dark, stately man 
of foreign aspect, courteous in demeanor and mild of 
speech, yet with an abstracted eye, which seemed often 
to snatch a glance at the invisible. 

Meantime the widow Cranfield went bustling about 
the house, full of joy that she again had somebody to 
love, and be careful of, and for whom she might vex 
and tease herself with the petty troubles of daily life. 
It was nearly noon when she looked forth from the 
door, and descried three personages of note coming 
along the street, through the hot sunshine and the 
masses of elm-tree shade. At length they reached her 
gate and undid the latch. 

“ See, Ralph ! ” exclaimed she, with maternal pride, 
“ here is Squire Hawkwood and the two other select¬ 
men, coming on purpose to see you! Now do tell them 
a good long story about what you have seen in foreign 
parts.” 

The foremost of the three visitors, Squire Hawk- 
wood, was a very pompous, but excellent old gentle¬ 
man, the head and prime mover in all the affairs of 
the village, and universally acknowledged to be one 
of the sagest men on earth. He wore, according to 
a fashion even then becoming antiquated, a three- 
cornered hat, and carried a silver-headed cane, the use 
of which seemed to be rather for flourishing in the air 
than for assisting the progress of his legs. His two 
companions were elderly and respectable yeomen, who, 
retaining an ante-revolutionary reverence for rank and 
hereditary wealth, kept a little in the Squire’s rear. 
As they approached along the pathway, Ralph Cram 
field sat in an oaken elbow chair, half unconsciously 
gazing at the three visitors, and enveloping their 
homely figures in the misty romance that pervaded 
his mental world. 


584 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


“ Here,” thought he, smiling at the conceit, “here 
come three elderly personages, and the first of the 
three is a venerable sage with a staff. What if this 
embassy should bring me the message of my fate! ” 

While Squire Hawkwood and his colleagues entered, 
Ralph rose from his seat and advanced a few steps to 
receive them , and his stately figure and dark coun¬ 
tenance, as he bent courteously towards his guests, had 
a natural dignity, contrasting well with the bustling 
importance of the Squire. The old gentleman, accord¬ 
ing to invariable custom, gave an elaborate prelim¬ 
inary flourish with his cane in the air, then removed 
his three-cornered hat in order to wipe his brow, and 
finally proceeded to make known his errand. 

“My colleagues and myself,” began the Squire, 
“ are burdened with momentous duties, being jointly 
selectmen of this village. Our minds, for the space 
of three days past, have been laboriously bent on the 
selection of a suitable person to fill a most important 
office, and take upon himself a charge and rule which, 
wisely considered, may be ranked no lower than those 
of kings and potentates. And whereas you, our 
native townsman, are of good natural intellect, and 
well cultivated by foreign travel, and that certain va¬ 
garies and fantasies of your youth are doubtless long 
ago corrected; taking all these matters, I say, into 
due consideration, we are of opinion that Providence 
hath sent you hither, at this juncture, for our very 
purpose.” 

During this harangue, Cranfield gazed fixedly at 
the speaker, as if he beheld something mysterious and 
unearthly in his pompous little figure, and as if the 
Squire had worn the flowing robes of an ancient sage, 
instead of a square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, 


535 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 

velvet breeches and silk stockings. Nor was his won¬ 
der without sufficient cause; for the flourish of the 
Squire s staff, marvellous to relate, had described pre¬ 
cisely the signal in the air which was to ratify the 
message of the prophetic Sage whom Cranfield had 
sought around the world. 

u And what, ’ inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a 
tremor in his voice, “ what may this office be, which 
is to equal me with kings and potentates ? ” 

u less than instructor of our village school,” an¬ 
swered Squire Hawkwood; u the office being now 
vacant by the death of the venerable Master Whita¬ 
ker, after a fifty years’ incumbency.” 

“ I will consider of your proposal,” replied Ralph 
Cranfield, hurriedly, “ and will make known my de¬ 
cision within three days.” 

After a few more words the village dignitary and 
his companions took their leave. But to Cranfield’s 
fancy their images were still present, and became 
more and more invested with the dim awfulness of 
figures which had first appeared to him in a dream, 
and afterwards had shown themselves in his waking: 
moments, assuming homely aspects among familiar 
things. His mind dwelt upon the features of the 
Squire, till they grew confused with those of the vis¬ 
ionary Sage, and one appeared but the shadow of the 
other. The same visage, he now thought, had looked 
forth upon him from the Pyramid of Cheops ; the 
same form had beckoned to him among the colon¬ 
nades of the Alhambra; the same figure had mistily 
revealed itself through the ascending steam of the 
Great Geyser. At every effort of his memory he rec¬ 
ognized some trait of the dreamy Messenger of Des¬ 
tiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important, little 


636 


TWICE-TOLD TALES . 


great man of the village. Amid such musings Ralph 
Cranfield sat all day in the cottage, scarcely hearing 
and vaguely answering his mother’s thousand ques¬ 
tions about his travels and adventures. At sunset 
he roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the 
aged elm-tree, his eye was again caught by the sem¬ 
blance of a hand pointing downward at the half-ob¬ 
literated inscription. 

As Cranfield walked down the street of the village, 
the level sunbeams threw his shadow far before him ; 
and he fancied that as his shadow walked among dis¬ 
tant objects, so had there been a presentiment stalking 
in advance of him throughout his life. And when he 
drew near each object, over which his tall shadow had 
preceded him, still it proved to be one of the familiar 
recollections of his infancy and youth. Every crook 
in the pathway was remembered. Even the more tran¬ 
sitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in 
by-gone days. A company of cows were grazing on 
the grassy roadside, and refreshed him with their fra¬ 
grant breath. “ It is sweeter,” thought he, “ than 
the perfume which was wafted to our ship from the 
Spice Islands.” The round little figure of a child 
rolled from a doorway, and lay laughing almost be¬ 
neath Cranfield’s feet. The dark and stately man 
stooped down and, lifting the infant, restored him to 
his mother’s arms. “ The children,” said he to him¬ 
self — and sighed and smiled — “ the children are to 
be my charge! ” And while a flow of natural feeling 
gushed like a well-spring in his heart, he came to a 
dwelling which he could nowise forbear to enter. A 
sweet voice, which seemed to come from a deep and 
tender soul, was warbling a plaintive little air within. 

He bent his head and passed through the lowly 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY. 537 

door. As his foot sounded upon the threshold, a 
young woman advanced from the dusky interior of 
the house, at first hastily, and then with a more uncer¬ 
tain step, till they met face to face. There was a 
singular contrast in their two figures : he dark and 
picturesque — one who had battled with the world, 
whom all suns had shone upon, and whom all winds 
had blown on a varied course; she neat, comely, and 
quiet — quiet even in her agitation, as if all her 
emotions had been subdued to the peaceful tenor of 
her life. Yet their faces, all unlike as they were, had 
an expression that seemed not so alien, a glow of 
kindred feeling flashing upward anew from half-extin¬ 
guished embers. 

“ You are welcome home! ” said Faith Egerton. 

But Cranfield did not immediately answer ; for his 
eye had been caught by an ornament in the shape of 
a Heart which Faith wore as a brooch upon her 
bosom. The material was the ordinary white quartz * 
and he recollected having himself shaped it out of 
one of those Indian arrowheads which are so often 
found in the ancient haunts of the red men. It was 
precisely on the pattern of that worn by the visionary 
Maid. When Cranfield departed on his shadowy 
search he had bestowed this brooch, in a gold setting, 
as a parting gift to Faith Egerton. 

“So, Faith, you have kept the Heart! ” said he at 
length. 

“ Yes,” said she, blushing deeply; then more gayly, 
“ and what else have you brought me from beyond the 
sea ? ” 

“ Faith! ” replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the 
fated words by an uncontrollable impulse, “ I have 
brought you nothing but a heavy heart! May I rest 
its weight on you ? ” 


538 


TWICE-TOLD TALES. 


“ This token which I have worn so long,” said 
Faith, laying her tremulous finger on the Heart, “is 
the assurance that you may ! ” 

“ Faith ! Faith! ” cried Cranfield, clasping her in 
his arms, “ you have interpreted my wild and weaiy 
dream! ” 

Yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. To find 
the mysterious treasure, he was to till the earth around 
his mother’s dwelling, and reap its products ! Instead 
of warlike command, or regal or religious sway, he 
was to ride over the village children! And now the 
visionary Maid had faded from his fancy, and in her 
place he saw the playmate of his childhood! Would 
all who cherish such wild wishes but look around 
them, they would oftenest find their sphere of duty, 
of prosperity, and happiness, within those precincts 
and in that station where Providence itself has cast 
their lot. Happy they who read the riddle without a 
weary world search, or a lifetime spent in vain! 


THE END. 























































